


Atonement

by SmashingTeacups



Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Car Accident, F/M, Medical Trauma, Nurse/Patient, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2020-02-10 18:41:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 77,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18666136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmashingTeacups/pseuds/SmashingTeacups
Summary: Jamie Fraser suffers a horrific car accident and wakes up in the hospital to find his life forever changed. His sole comfort comes in the companionship he finds with Claire Beauchamp, a nurse who understands his suffering more than he knows.





	1. Oblivion

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my newest venture, and my first attempt at a modern day AU! Buckle in for a _ride_ , you guys; this is going to be a slow burn, and quite the angsty one. I plan on posting on Wednesdays for now - I've written ahead a bit, but of course once I get caught up I'll be posting as I write, and you'll have to bear with me! I am anticipating that this story will be somewhere around 30 chapters when completed. 
> 
> I'll have moodboards posted with each chapter on tumblr, if you're interested! You can find me at https://smashing-teacups.tumblr.com/ (and on twitter @smasheroteacups)
> 
> I have so many people to thank for their help in getting this beast launched, I'm just going to go in alphabetical order, here: my undying love and appreciation to apartofthenarrative, claryclark, desperationandgin, happytoobservefromadistance, lcbeauchampoftarth, missclairebelle, Soloh, suzannevvale, and thefraserwitch for your feedback, corrections, plotbunnies and brainstorming sessions, encouragement, late night rants, and friendship. Wouldn't be here without every single one of you. ❤

_“Mr. Fraser?”_

_Jamie’s vision spun. Fragmented. Blurred, focused, then shattered again. He was vaguely aware of movement all around him — a sea of faces, flashing blue and red lights, a revolving glass door._

_“Mr. Fraser, can you hear me?”_

_“… Aye…” He heard the rasp of his own voice as though he were somehow disconnected from it._

  _“Mr. Fraser, you’ve been in an accident. You’re in the emergency room at Mass General. There’s gonna be a lot going on here, okay, buddy? A lot of people, a lot of activity. Just know that we’re doing everything we can to get you stabilized.”_

_“62/37, Dr. Goldstein.”_

_“Run that LR wide open. Did we type him?”_

_“Yeah, I got it.”_

_“Alright, let’s get 2 units of O neg on standby. We need that second access, people! Someone get me at least a 16 gauge in this guy—”_

_A fresh surge of blood trickled over the side of the stretcher, splattering the hospital floor with red._

_Cold. Christ, he was so cold._

_“58/35.”_

_There was a muttered curse above him, and then the heel of large, strong hands pressed to his chest, poised to begin CPR._

_“Come on, buddy, stay with me…”_

_The world closed in, a monitor screamed, and then there was nothing._

 

* * *

 

Oblivion had its distinct advantages.

There was no comprehension of time or space, no sense that the world had continued to turn while Jamie lay motionless, hovering indecisively on the line between life and death. There was no pain, no horror, no anguish. He didn’t dream. He didn’t remember. He merely _was —_ and even then, he managed only a tremulous, flickering hold on existence.

All in all, though, the void wasn’t so bad.

When he did, at last, begin the sluggish process of coming back to himself, Jamie’s first awareness was one of noise. All around him, enveloping him, was a mingled, whirring drone: a low, steady, mechanical thrum, the dull roar of a heating vent, a peaceful bubbling sound, like water boiling on a stove.  

Slowly, he managed to crack crusted lashes apart. At once, his vision swam dizzyingly, and he let the heavy lids fall shut again before they’d fully opened. Still, it was long enough to spark the realization that there was something _there_ … something beyond the darkness.

 _Green_ , he thought dimly, struggling for the word. There was a green light, just ahead of him. If he focused hard enough, he could still make it out, glowing beyond his closed eyelids.

The overwhelming majority of his brain begged him to let it go; to surrender, to slide back down into nothingness. Still, his interest was piqued. Curiosity got the better of his instinct for self-preservation, and Jamie stubbornly pried his eyes open a second time.

There it was again: that bright chartreuse light. Ignoring the near-violent wave of vertigo, he stared at it hard this time, willing his pupils to constrict, to focus. Gradually, painstakingly, the blurred luminance began to sharpen and take shape.

A rectangle… several of them. Five of them. Glowing, neon green rectangles.

Jamie stared at them until the churning, pitching dizziness began to abate. Only then did he dare to drag his gaze down slightly, to the flicker of movement just below the steady green glow. Bleary eyes watched the letters that scrolled repeatedly in front of him, reading over and over without any sort of comprehension.

_Fentanyl… Midazolam… TPN… Lipids… Cefazolin_

His eyes began to blur again, wet and strained from the effort of remaining open so long. He let them drift shut, feeling himself tip back toward unconsciousness. Right on the cusp, he drew in a deep breath on the pretense of a sigh.

That slight stretch of skin over ribs, and it was over. He was back in his own body, then. Immediately, _desperately,_ he wished he wasn’t.

Nothing could have prepared him for it.

Nape to waist, he was flayed open. Shredded flesh, muscle, sinew; raw red tissue, splintered bone, nerve endings exposed and pulsing, burning _…_ _scalding…_

Igniting with white hot agony, he seized up; he couldn’t move; he couldn’t _stop_ moving — shuddering, convulsing. He tried to twist away from his own skin, and vaguely heard himself screaming.

Somewhere overhead, a high-pitched alarm screeched. Then another. Far away, he heard the pound of several sets of footsteps, running.

“Jamie!” A frantic cry rose over the whirlwind of overlapping voices that suddenly pressed all around him.

_Da?_

“Hold him!” commanded another, unfamiliar voice. 

A fizzy, chemical burn in his veins, and his head swam, rippling as though a stone had been skipped across the surface of his mind.

The void opened up gaping black arms and welcomed him home.

Jamie fell back into it with more relief than he’d ever felt in his life.


	2. The Velvet Hammer

Claire Beauchamp didn’t even read the page that changed her life.

Most nights, she had a nice, leisurely start to her shift. There was time to peruse her patients’ charts, make detailed notes, organize her workload on a spreadsheet — every med pass, vitals check, and dressing change listed in neat hourly columns.

Tonight was not one of those nights.

She’d hit the floor running the moment the day shift finished handoff. Six call lights, a spilled water, a wandering dementia patient, a dislodged and profusely bleeding IV, two requests for pain meds, and a full-blown projectile vomit later… she’d _just_ barely sat down to chart when her pager erupted in a series of shrill, high-pitched beeps. On instinct, Claire smacked irritably at it to silence it. She had every intention of reading the message scrawled out in archaic block print, just as soon as she finished charting everything she’d done in the last hour and a half.

As fate would have it, though — or, rather, as Gillian Edgars would have it — she never got the chance. Ten minutes later, the charge nurse rounded the corner to the computer charting station, looking wild-eyed and disheveled.

“Did ye no’ get my page?” she demanded breathlessly.

Claire grimaced, and belatedly tugged the pager loose from her scrub top. “Shit. No. Sorry. What did you need?”

Gillian grabbed her by the elbow, pulling her to her feet and around the corner before Claire even had a chance to lock her computer screen. “I need my Velvet Hammer, that’s wha’ I need.”

A guttural groan wrenched itself from Claire’s throat. _That_ couldn’t be good.

During her three year tenure at Massachusetts General Hospital, Claire had managed to acquire a bit of a reputation for her unflappable, level-headed demeanor with the more “challenging” patients. What that meant, she found out rather quickly, was that the worst kind of belligerent, demeaning, non-compliant arseholes were routinely hoisted off on her, because the charge nurses “knew she could handle it.” Her coworkers had taken to calling her The Velvet Hammer after Gillian repeatedly teased her that _Ye’ll bash their skulls in and make ‘em thank ye for the pleasure._ It was meant to be a compliment, she supposed, but what it really amounted to was more work.

To be fair, though, _more work_ was exactly what Claire had been chasing these past few weeks. She’d racked up hours upon hours of overtime, working nearly double her normal appointment – sixty, sometimes seventy-two hours a week, if she could get away with it. She arrived at the hospital early and left late every day. Anything, really, to keep her occupied.

Anything to keep her sane.

Frank had texted her again on the way in to work this evening ( _We need to talk, Claire. You can’t bloody well avoid me forever_ ). So whatever nightmare scenario Gillian was about to assign her, she supposed it would provide a much-needed distraction, if nothing else.

Steeling herself, Claire dug her trainers into the linoleum floor, forcing her coworker to stop and look at her. Welcome distraction or not, it didn’t seem particularly wise to venture into a warzone blind.

“Care to tell me what sort of fresh hell you’re dragging me into, here, Gill?”

The pretty young Scot winced, dragging her nails back through mussed strawberry-blonde hair. “Fresh hell is right. Mary’s in the locker room sobbin’ her guts out.”

“Oh, God.” Her stomach dropped. Mary Hawkins was a new-graduate nurse, barely a week off of orientation, and as skittish as they came. “What happened?”

“A fucking _trainwreck_ , tha’s wha’ happened!” Gillian huffed out a sigh, gesticulating animatedly as she spoke. “The hospital’s at high occupancy, so the bed managers have been pagin’ me all day with these random off-service transfers, tryin’ to free up the ICU beds. I fought ‘em tooth and nail on this one before they went over my head and got the transfer approved. Fucking _Trauma/Burn_! They said he’s plastic surgery, no’ ‘ _technically_ ’ a burn patient—” Her fingers arched in air quotes, accompanied by an exaggerated eye roll. “—so he falls under our jurisdiction. I tried to fight it, Claire, I swear...”

“What happened with _Mary_ , Gill?”  

“I’m gettin’ there, haud yer wheesht! So we were down to the last bed, and I had no choice but to take this guy, and Mary was the only one open for an admit. I should ha’ just had her switch with you, _I ken_ , I’m payin’ for it now! Anyway, she’d never seen a skin graft before, so when she did her first assessment, she tried to pull up the dressing to check the wound, and—”

“Shit,” Claire hissed through her teeth. Oh, she was being pulled in for damage control, all right. Most surgical sites were covered by a removable pad or gauze so that the incision could be carefully monitored. Skin grafts, on the other hand, were delicate, and needed to be left alone for optimum healing. The dressing covering it was literally _stitched_ into the surrounding flesh to prevent tampering. It was an innocent mistake; they didn’t regularly take plastic surgery patients, so Mary’d never had a chance to learn. Still, Claire had a hunch that wouldn’t particularly matter to the patient whose raw skin the new nurse had tried to pry off, ripping at the fresh sutures in the process.

“Aye. _Shit_. So what I need from ye now is hyper-competence, my Velvetiest of Hammers.” Gillian slung an arm around her shoulders and began to lead her down the hallway again.

As they passed the clock mounted on the wall above the nurses’ station, Claire let out a groan, suddenly remembering all of the charting she still had yet to finish. “You picked a fine night to throw this at me, Edgars. My assignment is—”

“I’ll mind yer assignment while ye deal with this. And Mary’ll take one of yer other patients in exchange for this one. Maybe a gentle wee lamb like yer auld biddy in room 62?”

“Oh, sure,” Claire sighed. “By all means, take my easy patient.”

“Ye’re a braw lass, Claire Beauchamp.” Gill patted her shoulder in commiseration. “A bonny wee warrior. My _favorite_ nurse to ever walk these halls.”

Claire shot her a look. “Coffee. You owe me coffee.”

“Large dark roast, two creams, sugar in the raw. Aye, on it.” She gave a mock salute. “And dinner, too, if ye want! Thai food? Hmm? Pizza? Ali Baba? Dumpling Palace? You name it, Beauchamp, I’ll have it delivered and waitin’ for ye once ye sort out this whole Fraser mess.”

“Fraser?” Claire echoed, pulling the pen and note paper from her scrub pocket. “Is that his name?”

“Aye, James Fraser. Room 43. Twenty-six year old male, motor vehicle accident—” If she caught Claire’s flinch, she kindly chose not to remark on it. “—extensive trauma. Ripped his back clean off. Three skin grafts sae far and he’s still a hot mess. Had every complication in the book: sepsis, necrosis, shock. Too many blood transfusions to count.” Gillian lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper as they approached room 43. “Puir bugger. Dinna blame him for bein’ like he is. I’d be a right heinous bitch if ‘twere me.” Her lip curled upwards in a half-smirk. “If it’s any consolation, he’s no’ horrible to look at.” With a wink, she spun on her heel and backpedaled toward the relative safety of the nurses’ station. “And he’s Scottish, too, like yer favorite charge nurse!”

“Joe isn’t Scottish!” Claire quipped as she held her palm out beneath the automated hand-sanitizer dispenser. Gill turned around mid-retreat to mime stabbing herself in the heart, her green eyes twinkling.

Claire was still smiling over her shoulder and rubbing Purell between her hands as she stepped into James Fraser’s hospital room for the first time. After enough years in this profession, the standard introduction bloomed on her lips automatically: “Good evening, Mr. Fraser, my name is Claire, I’ll be your nurse t—”

She stopped short when she actually looked up and got her first glimpse of the patient in question. Her customary script dissolved into a choked little “ _oh_ ” before she could catch herself.

Gillian had failed to mention that James Fraser was a _giant_.

Truthfully, she couldn’t see much of him; he was stretched out on his stomach, his hulking form covered by a starched white sheet. A mop of matted auburn curls peeked out over the top, but the bottom hem barely reached his mid-calf. Someone had taken the footboard off the bed so that he wasn’t scrunched up, but they hadn’t gotten around to extending the bed frame. As a result, his bare feet were dangling a good six inches off the end of the mattress. It was a strangely endearing sight – almost childlike, somehow. A faint smile touched Claire’s lips before she tucked it away behind a mask of cool professionalism.

She attempted to cover the momentary lapse in decorum by clearing her throat. “I’ll, ah, I’ll be your nurse tonight. I’m here with you until 7:30 in the morning.”

No response.

After the whole dressing debacle, she supposed he’d earned that much. Could be worse; she certainly preferred stony silence to explosive anger. In any event, carrying on a one-sided conversation with an embittered patient had become almost second nature to her by now. She pressed on brightly, clasping her hands in front of her. “Right. First thing’s first. Let’s start by fixing that bed, shall we?”

The patient didn’t move a muscle; made no effort to acknowledge her presence whatsoever. Pursing her lips, Claire turned on her heel and saw herself out, the mechanical whir and squelch of the hand sanitizer dispenser the only sound in the room.

Five minutes later, she returned with a teetering stack of supplies piled up to her chin – not only the mattress insert, but also all of the other essentials she thought he might need for a long hospital stay: lotion, Kleenex, chapstick, deodorant, body wash, shaving cream, a razor, a toothbrush and toothpaste, a wide toothed comb, a menu, the channel list for the TV, a ballpoint pen, and a little notepad with the hospital’s logo printed across the top.

“Brought you a few things,” she told him cheerily. Since he still wouldn’t pull the sheet down from over his face, she named each item aloud as she set it on the end table beside him. Unfortunately, her attempt to win Mr. Fraser over with a load of hospital-issue swag appeared to be falling flat; he remained silent and unmoving for so long that Claire finally decided to just leave him be. There was still the matter of the bed to be sorted, though — she couldn’t very well leave him with his feet dangling.

Circling around to the control panel, she quietly explained what she was doing as she pressed the little arrow button to elongate the bed. The machinery gave off a grinding whine as the frame stretched. Once it was extended as far as it would go, she moved down to the foot of the bed with the extra mattress insert tucked under one arm.

“Mr. Fraser, do you think you could lift your feet up for just a moment while I—?” She blinked a little in surprise when he immediately bent his knees, ankles crossing in mid-air, before she could even finish her sentence.

So, not a deaf-mute after all. Stubborn as all get out, but not totally incompliant, either.

She could work with that.

“Thank you,” she murmured as she slipped the insert into place and tugged the fitted sheet out around it. She smiled at him automatically, forgetting that he couldn’t see her. Resisting the urge to sigh, she added, “All set.”

She didn’t miss the way his calves had begun to tremble a bit, fatigued by that slight bit of effort. His legs slumped back to the bed like a deadweight the moment she gave her permission. God, how long had he been in the ICU? Gillian had mentioned three skin grafts, and judging by his level of deconditioning, it must have been several weeks of bedrest, at least.  

A tiny crease formed between Claire’s brows. She really needed to get a look at this patient’s chart before she proceeded much further with trying to care for him. She’d had a few plastic surgery patients over the years — reconstruction after breast cancer, usually — but nothing recent, and never anything this severe. She was flying by the seat of her pants, here, and the very last thing she wanted to do was cause this poor man any more pain. Particularly after his rather rocky introduction to the unit.

Which reminded her…

“Mr. Fraser—” She hesitated, twining her fingers together thoughtfully as she spoke. “I wanted to apologize to you for what happened earlier. Mary is one of our newer nurses, and I’m afraid we don’t see many skin grafts on this unit. For what it’s worth, she feels horrible for—”

“S’fine,” a deep, hoarse voice whispered beneath the sheet, so faintly that she thought she might have imagined it.

Swallowing back her surprise, Claire pulled over a wheeled stool and sat down by the head of his bed. “It’s not,” she said earnestly. “You trust your nurses to know how to care for you, and we betrayed that trust tonight. You have every right to be upset.”

There was another long stretch of silence, and she thought perhaps he’d clammed up on her again. She shifted her weight, and was taking a breath to launch back into her apology when the soft Scottish brogue spoke again. “T’was an honest mistake. I’m no’ upset.” A pause, an audible swallow, then he added faintly, “No’ about that, anyway.”

At last, she watched his hand drag up beneath the sheet to take hold of the upper edge. She held her breath unconsciously as he pulled it away from his face.

… and released it in a sharp exhale as his eyes locked onto hers.

She could live to see a thousand years and never be able to describe it: the raw agony reflected in those pools of fathomless blue, or the desperate, echoing ache it roused in the very marrow of her bones. She was a nurse; she’d always had the instinct to nurture and to heal. This was something else entirely. The very molecules of her body ignited with the need to comfort him, to touch, to soothe.

It was madness, really. He’d spoken less than a dozen words to her. He was a perfect stranger. Yet she knew by the shift in his eyes that he felt it too… the spark of recognition, of understanding; the strange and sudden intimacy amongst broken souls.

For the space of several heartbeats they simply stared at one another in silence. Then, finally, James Fraser opened and closed his mouth, wet his lips, and stammered hoarsely, “Yer name, lass... what did you say your name was?”

Her lips moved, but hardly any sound breathed past them. “Claire.” She cleared her throat and tried again. “My name is Claire.”

“Claire,” he echoed quietly, experimentally. The sound of her name in that soft burr elicited a tremulous smile, a fluttering exhale. She dropped her lashes then, breaking eye contact in a desperate bid to regain any semblance of professionalism.

“It’s a pleasure to finally put a face to the name, Mr. Fraser.” Her fingertips brushed teasingly over the hem of the sheet, gathered just below his shoulders. She could still feel the warmth of his skin lingering on the starched cotton. There was another long beat of silence, and Claire glanced up to find that his eyes had never once left hers. She swallowed against a suddenly dry throat, feeling her cheeks flush at the unabashed intensity of his gaze.

“Jamie,” he murmured at last, the lines around his eyes crinkling in the ghost of a smile. “You can call me Jamie, if ye like.”


	3. Ripple Effect

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I'm completely blown away by the response to this fic so far! Thank you so very much to everyone who's taken the time to read, review, and/or leave kudos.

He hadn’t cried when Jenny told him. 

He’d screamed at her; bellowed and raged until the vein in his forehead popped, until he was spraying spittle, until the nurse’s assistant came in, palms raised, imploring him to remember that there were other patients trying to rest. The charge nurse burst in right behind him, asking if she needed to call hospital security. At that point, Jamie had buried his face in his pillow and pulled the covers up over his head, opting to seethe in silence.

They transferred him out of the ICU three hours later. Said it was because he was stable now; he wasn’t critical enough to need a bed on the trauma/burn unit anymore. Maybe that was so.

Truth be told, it didn’t matter to Jamie what they did with him any more. None of it mattered.

His father was dead. Cremated, placed in an urn, his ashes flown back to Scotland and scattered amongst the heather. The ceremony had been beautiful, Jenny assured him. They’d recorded video of the whole thing so he could see it later, “when he was ready.”

He told her to go to hell.

Six weeks, and she hadn’t said a word. Six  _ weeks _ . She insisted that it had been to protect him; he’d been so fragile, barely clinging to life himself, she didn’t think he could handle it. She thought it would kill him, too. Her face had crumpled with that confession, her breath hitching on a sob.

_ I couldna lose ye both, brother. _

Jamie tried to pin the blame on her, at first. How could she let Da fly out to Boston in the first place? He had a bad heart, she  _ knew  _ that. He was supposed to be taking it easy until he got his defibrillator; he had no business getting on an international flight. She could have stopped him. Taken his credit card, hidden his passport. Something.  _ Anything. _

But even as he raged, hurling vitriol at his sister with everything he had, Jamie could feel the horrible truth begin to settle in his bones like lead.

It wasn’t Jenny’s fault. It was his.

It was his.

He was the one who’d gone through a fucking windshield. The one who had taken off his seat belt for one stupid minute, because his phone had dropped out of the cup holder and onto the floor, and the Bluetooth had disconnected, and God forbid he go five minutes without listening to his damned podcast.

He coded in the ER. Died, flatlined - twice. There was no question: it was supposed to have been  _ his  _ ashes tucked into a carry-on and brought back on a flight home to Glasgow.

Brian Fraser was supposed to be out on a rowboat right now, watching the sunrise as he cast a fishing line over a glassy loch. He was supposed to be finishing the Alexander Hamilton biography he’d picked up over the summer after being dragged to the musical and, shockingly, loving it. He was supposed to be shopping for Christmas gifts for his grandkids, panicking because he had no idea what the hell a  _ Paw Patrol  _ was.

He’d never do any of those things again, though. Because six weeks ago, he’d watched his only son wake screaming in a hospital bed, out of his mind with pain, and his weakened heart had given out.

Death had come to claim the wrong Fraser. The fury and the helplessness of that cosmic mistake was building in Jamie’s chest like a pressure cooker, the burning ache expanding by the minute until he thought his ribcage was going to crack.

Still, he didn’t cry.

He didn’t say another word, either. Not the entire time the nursing staff was cleaning out his ICU room, packing up his belongings into plastic drawstring bags; not during the excruciatingly bumpy stretcher ride down to the new unit; not when four sets of strong arms slid him over onto a smaller, infinitely less comfortable bed than the one he’d had upstairs. When prompted, he gave his name and date of birth through a tight, aching throat. That was it.

Until the mousy wee nurse assigned to him tried to pull his skin graft off.

He wasn’t quiet then.

A molten tirade of Gaelic and English curses had exploded out of him in a bone-shaking roar, sending several staff members running into his hospital room for the second time that day. Vaguely, distantly, he was aware that he had reduced his frightened young nurse to hysterics. She left the room sobbing, but it took several more minutes of chest-heaving agony before Jamie regained the wherewithal to feel sorry for having terrorized the lass.

It seemed to be becoming a habit, lately; his pain created a ripple effect of suffering to those around him.

He pulled the too-short sheet up over his head again, guilt-ridden and heartsick, feeling very much as though he were trying to hide under a blade of grass.

A few minutes went by before a slightly older, considerably more competent nurse —  _ a Sassenach _ , he noted dully — came in to do damage control. He assumed they’d sent a battleaxe, a Nurse Ratched type, to get the wild, fearsome brute of a Scot back in line.

Not that there was any fight left in him. The last of his rage had erupted in that final outburst, leaving behind only a charred, empty husk of a man. He laid still and let the English nurse do as she wished, hoping that she’d go away quickly and leave him to mourn in peace.  

He never expected…

_ Claire,  _ she said her name was. Claire.

She had the saddest eyes he’d ever seen.

 

* * *

 

Claire’s cell phone began vibrating in her pocket for the fourth time as she bent to drape a piece of sterile gauze across Jamie Fraser’s thigh. Hands gloved and sticky with vaseline, she had no means to silence the incessant buzzing. She winced, shooting her patient an apologetic glance. 

“Sorry about that.”

Jamie’s gaze flickered up to meet hers briefly before dropping back to the dressing she was applying to his leg. “Ye’re a popular lass tonight.”

“Hardly,” she scoffed. Her brow creased a bit, lips parted in concentration, as she gently dabbed at the wound. “Just one very persistent individual, incapable of taking a hint.”

“Ah.”

The two of them lapsed into silence again as she worked. She’d just finished securing the second-to-last piece of tape around his dressing when her phone went off again.

“Jesus H.  _ Christ _ ,” she hissed.

The corner of Jamie’s lip twitched. “Think you might need to take that,” he suggested wryly. “The silent treatment doesna seem to be workin’ for ye.”

Claire widened her eyes in annoyance. “Apparently.” Her gaze darted over his face before she added, blushing, “I really am sorry about this, it’s terribly unprofessional.”

“Dinna fash. I’m no’ the complaining-to-the-manager type.”

“Good to hear.” The lines around her eyes crinkled warmly as she affixed the last piece of tape. “There,” she announced, peeling off her gloves with a snap. “That should do it.”

“Thank ye.” Jamie flexed his knee experimentally, testing the feel and movement of the fresh bandage.

“How’s the pain?”

“I’ll bide.”

Claire frowned at him, unconvinced. “On a scale of zero to ten?”

He considered, then tilted his jaw in a shrug. “Eight.”

“ _ Eight? _ ” She pulled over the rolling computer and began to click through his chart. “Well, that’s why: you haven’t had any pain medicine since noon. Let me get you some morphine.”

Jamie let out a little grunt as he laid back down, settling on his right hip. “Dinna like the morphine.” At her look, he expounded gruffly, “Makes my head feel strange. I’d rather bear the pain, if it’s all the same to you.”

She opened her mouth to attempt to reason with him, but her phone interrupted as it began to vibrate again. Reaching into her pocket, she hit the button on the side to decline the call, and tilted the phone up just slightly so that she could see the screen. 

Fourteen text messages. Six missed calls.

_ Oh, for the love of… _

Pushing down her irritation, she looked back up to Jamie and offered professionally, “It’s your prerogative to take or refuse any medication you choose. I’m only here to advise.”

“Yer advice is duly noted,” Jamie said, closing his eyes and tugging the sheet up over his shoulders. “But I’ll bide.”

 

* * *

 

She’d barely taken three steps into the hall when her phone started buzzing again. Biting out a curse, Claire ducked into the supply room. Despite her better judgment, she flicked her thumb over the green answer button, irritated to the point of confrontation for the first time in weeks.

“You need to stop,” she hissed into her phone without preamble. “I’m at  _ work, _ Frank.”

“Well, that’s the thing, isn’t it?” a familiar voice answered on the other end, dripping with condescension. “You’re always at work. When else am I supposed to call, Claire? How much overtime have you picked up this week alone?”

She gritted her teeth, rolling her eyes shut. “What I do with my time is none of your—”

“You’re avoiding me! You’re fucking avoiding me, don’t even try to deny it! You’re working yourself into a bloody stupor trying to forget any of this ever happened. And that may work for a while, darling, but you can’t keep it up indefinitely. We need to  _ talk about this  _ like goddamned adults!”

“I have nothing to say to you. I thought I made that quite clear.”

“Be _reasonable_ , Claire! Just think for a moment. Use that rational nurse’s brain of yours and _think_ about what would have happened if we stayed. You think you’d still have your beloved job at that hospital? Hm? You honestly think you’d still have a nursing license? We’d have lost our work visas and been deported—”

A choked laugh of disbelief caught in her throat. “ _ That’s _ what you’re worried about? Honestly? Your  _ fucking _ work visa?”

“No, what I’m saying is—”

She hung up on him then and powered her phone completely down. Bristling and defiant, she decided on the spot to stay for another block of overtime in the morning — make a 16-hour night of it. Frank might be right; she couldn’t keep up this reckless pace forever. But for now…

For now, she smoothed her hair, straightened her scrubs, and went back to work.

Shouldering through the door and out into the main hallway, Claire stopped short at the sight of another woman just a few steps away, close enough to have overheard her not-so-professional conversation if she had a mind to eavesdrop. Fortunately, given a quick once-over, it didn’t appear that she’d been paying any attention.

The woman was very obviously lost. She was studying her iPhone intently, muttering to herself as she looked back and forth from the hospital map on her screen to the room numbers above the doors. A bulky, heavy-looking paper grocery bag was clutched to her hip, and she hitched it up uncomfortably as Claire approached.

“Can I help you find something?”

The woman looked up in surprise, and then sagged a bit in relief when her eye caught Claire’s employee badge. “God, I hope so. I’m looking for my brother, James Fraser? They said he was transferred to this floor a few hours ago, but this whole place is a maze, I’m no’ sure I’m even in the right area…”

There was no doubt in Claire’s mind that the woman was who she claimed to be; the Scottish accent was a dead giveaway, and though she was slight and dark-haired, there was a clear resemblance to her brother. Still, her mind half-halted before answering. Taking care of the family was certainly part of her job, but her first priority was always her patient. She thought of Jamie, in pain and clearly wishing to be left alone, and steered his sister off toward the family waiting room.

“You’ve found the right place,” she said with a tight smile. “If you wouldn’t mind stepping into the lounge for just a moment, I’ll go check with Mr. Fraser and see if he’s ready for visitors.”

The woman paused mid-step, her jaw working back and forth as though easing an ache. She touched the tip of her tongue to her upper lip as she glanced off to one side.

“He willna see me if ye ask,” she admitted after a moment. Claire went still beside her, brows lifting slightly. The woman gave her a sharp look out of the corner of her eye — simultaneously vulnerable and irritated by that vulnerability. With a sigh, she dropped her heavy grocery bag into an empty lounge chair and planted both hands on her hips.

“Our father died a few weeks ago.”

Claire reached out briefly to touch the woman’s arm. “I’m so sorry.”

She gave a terse nod of acknowledgement. “Bad heart, ye ken? He barely left my brother’s side to take a piss after the accident; I’d bet my life he didna remember to take his meds. I had three bairns to get sorted before I could fly out, and by the time I got here, he’d…” She faltered, cocking her chin and rolling her shoulders as if to shrug off the grief. She was silent for a moment, composing herself, before she continued in a clipped tone, “I didna want to tell Jamie until he was stronger. He was barely hanging on himself at that point. But then it just wound up bein’ one thing after another — infections, more surgeries — and it just - it was never the right time. The longer it went on, the harder it got to tell him.” She shrugged, then crossed her arms tightly, defensively, over her chest. “Finally had to bite the bullet today. I fly back to Glasgow in the morning, no’ much choice left.” She stretched her neck, making a harsh sound in the back of her throat that was almost a laugh. “He didna take it well.”

“No, I can’t imagine he would,” Claire said softly.

The woman flashed her teeth in an expression that was somewhere between a grimace and smile. “Spent all this time worryin’ he’d blame himself. Turns out he blames me. And that’s fine, it’s better that way, ken. But he won’t even look at me now, let alone talk about it. And all of his friends, all of our family, they’re back in Scotland. The thought of going home and leavin’ him like this, wi’ no one—”

Claire reached for the woman’s hand this time, giving her knuckles a gentle squeeze. “We have a wonderful team of social workers to help patients during times of grief,” she assured her. “I’ll make sure we get someone in to see him as soon as possible.”

_ And there’s me,  _ a quiet voice inside of her added, with a flicker of possessiveness she didn’t care to examine too closely.  _ If no one else, he might talk to me. _

Jamie’s sister was studying her with shrewd, catlike blue eyes, and Claire felt a bit of a flush creep up her neck. Lowering her own eyes, she added quietly, honestly, “He won’t be alone.”

That seemed to satisfy his sister. She nodded once, swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand, and cleared her throat. “You’re his nurse?”

“I am.”

“Would ye mind giving this to him for me, then?” She gestured at the grocery bag with her elbow. “It’s just a few wee things from home I thought he might like to have. If ye just say a package arrived and dinna tell him I brought it…”

Claire fixed a professional smile on her face and bent to pick up the proffered bag. “I won’t say a word,” she promised.


	4. A Crack in the Veneer

Long after the Sassenach had finished his dressing change and left to deal with her overly-persistent caller, Jamie lay quietly in the dark, watching the rhythmic drip of his IV. His body was wrecked after such an eventful day; having pushed himself far beyond the limits of his exhaustion, he was now faced with the severe and unforgiving consequences of over-exertion. For the moment, it was all he could do to try and breathe through it, to consciously relax the spasming muscles of his back, to focus on anything but the pain. 

Labeling that pain an 8/10 had been generous. Still, the last thing he wanted was more morphine. He was already woozy; if he had one more dose of pain medicine he knew he’d throw up, and the thought of pulling the raw skin and torn muscles taut over and over again as he retched… well, it defeated the purpose of taking the morphine in the first place. So he gritted his teeth, lay still, and begged his roiling mind to just shut up and let him sleep. At least when he slept, he didn’t hurt.

He was teetering on the brink of success, his conscious thoughts just beginning to waver and disintegrate, when the latch to the door clicked softly open. Though Claire was careful not to disturb him, his eyes immediately snapped open and followed her shadowed form across the room. She was carrying something large and heavy against her hip, but he couldn’t quite make out what it was in the darkness.

“Ye dinna have to tiptoe,” he said quietly, startling her despite his best efforts. “I’m no’ asleep.”

The nurse put a hand to her heart and let out a breath of a laugh. “Christ, you scared me.”

“Sorry.”

“No, it’s alright,” she assured him, reflexively reaching up to smooth her dark hair. “I’m just surprised you’re still awake.” She crossed the room in a few shuffling strides and deposited the heavy parcel onto the bedside table with a little grunt of effort. Upon closer inspection, it was a grocery bag… one with a very familiar logo stamped on the side.

From home. From a market in Broch Mordha.

All of the warmth evaporated from Jamie’s tone instantaneously. “So what did my sister have to say?”

Claire studied him for a moment, as though trying to decide whether or not to deny it. After a beat of silence, she admitted reluctantly, “A bit.”

A scoffing noise caught in Jamie’s throat. “Aye, I’m sure she did. She had quite a bit to say to me, too.”

They both looked away; the nurse was suddenly very interested in the handle of the grocery bag, while Jamie returned his gaze to the drip of the IV chamber.

“I’m sorry,” Claire said after a moment, her voice aching with sincerity. “About your father.”

A flash of moisture burned Jamie’s eyes for the first time since hearing the news. “Aye,” he whispered, squeezing his lashes shut. “So’m I.”

He felt the warmth of a hand hovering just over his shoulder — close, but not quite touching — before it suddenly withdrew, as though she’d thought better of it. “Can I get you anything?” she asked softly.

“No.”

He heard the slosh of melting ice water as she tested the amount left in his styrofoam cup; satisfied, she set it back down again. She lingered for another moment, and he could feel her eyes on him, that astute nurse’s gaze assessing, searching for any small way to help. The good ones were always trying to do that: make his hospital stay a little bit better by seeing to his creature comforts; fetching him a blanket right out of the warmer, topping off his water, sneaking him an extra packet of graham crackers, finding him a pillow that was just a bit less squashy.

Claire seemed like a good one. Better, maybe, than most — because in that moment, she stood there looking at him, and she understood. She fought down the instinct to fuss over him; seemed to intrinsically understand his need for silence. For solitude.

“You know how to reach me if you think of anything,” she murmured, nudging his call light closer before she turned to leave.

Jamie’s voice stopped her just as she began to pull the door shut behind her. “Thank you.” He opened his eyes and found hers, feeling unmasked and frighteningly vulnerable. “Claire.”

Those soft golden eyes held his, brimming with understanding. The corner of her mouth tipped up in a fragile smile, and it was as if something in him cracked. Jamie tasted salt in the back of his throat and turned away, swallowing hard against the burning swell of grief.

Claire hesitated for another moment before she shut the door, granting him privacy to battle his demons. Still, Jamie knew he wasn’t alone. He could still feel her there, strange as it was — he could feel her standing just on the other side.

It helped.

 

* * *

 

Claire stood with her palm on the door for several minutes, head bowed, listening. She half-expected him to call out for her to come back, and couldn’t deny the slight pang of disappointment when he didn’t.

She wasn’t sure what had come over her.

Lost in her reverie, it took her much longer than usual to recognize the familiar scent that beckoned from the nurses’ station. A few steps down the corridor, it finally hit her, and she veered off toward it, drawn by the aroma of good, strong coffee like a moth to flame. Sure enough, a Venti Starbucks dark roast was waiting for her, the cardboard sleeve completely covered in black sharpie doodles ( _ a horrible impression of the kissing face emoji, a hammer coming down on a scowling stick figure, the Scottish flag surrounded by hearts and flames _ ).

Claire rolled her eyes with a huff of a laugh, sinking down into a desk chair and swiping her badge to unlock the computer. While she waited for the charting system to load, she took a sip and smacked her lips appreciatively. Gillian had added a dash of cinnamon for good measure.

“Suck up,” she muttered under her breath, lip curling in a smirk.

Clicking into the portal, Claire went through and deleted sweet old Mrs. Graham from her patient list, then added James Fraser in her place. With his chart finally open in front of her, she took out her paper and jotted down a few quick notes: his most recent vital signs, his allergies, the date of his last surgery, which meds were due at what time. Before she forgot, she went into the pain assessment tab and charted his 8/10 rating, frowning slightly as she typed in an additional comment of  _ Patient refusing medication at this time _ .

“Claire?” a meek, trembling voice said just behind her. She jolted as if she’d touched a livewire; it was all she could do not to slosh coffee all over her scrubs. For the length of three pounding heartbeats she squeezed her eyes shut, rattled just as much by her own overreaction as by being startled in the first place. She managed to compose her features before spinning the desk chair around, but it wasn’t quite fast enough to elude notice.

“Sorry!” Mary Hawkins squeaked. The young nurse stood a few paces back, wringing her hands. “I d-d-didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

“No, you’re fine.” Claire breathed out a shaky laugh, offering a placating smile to cover her own unease. “Caffeine buzz,” she explained smoothly, lifting her still-full coffee cup. “Makes me jumpy.”

The lie came easily enough, but  _ Christ _ , it had been weeks since she’d had to improvise an excuse on the fly like this. It was equal parts unnerving and infuriating, being in a position to have to do so again. There was no sense in denying that she was on edge tonight; Jamie had scared the wits out of her too, with no more than a quiet assurance that he was awake.

Her carefully polished veneer was cracking, and it was no great secret why.

She’d been doing just fine; she’d been handling herself, working hard, trying to find a way to move forward, a way to cope. Then along came bloody Frank Randall, barging back into her life with all the subtlety of a cannon ball. He was putting forth a damn good effort of dismantling her — ripping up her defense mechanisms by the roots, insistent upon rehashing the night she never wanted to think about again. He didn’t understand her at all, didn’t comprehend that she  _ couldn’t _ , she…

She needed to get a grip. Frank was no excuse. He’d never been an excuse.

_ Get it together, Beauchamp _ .

Reaching out to touch the younger nurse’s arm, Claire did what she always did when confronted with her own paralyzing vulnerability: she deflected.

“Are you hanging in there?” she murmured, brows knitted in concern. “I heard our friend in 43 really put you through the wringer tonight.”

Fortunately, the younger nurse took the bait without a second thought. “Oh, God, it was terrible!” she moaned, pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes. “It’s all my f-f-fault. I didn’t know I wasn’t supposed t-to touch the dressing and I pulled on it, and he—”

Claire got up and enveloped the poor girl in a hug. “It’s not your fault. You didn’t know.”

“He was so angry.” Mary’s voice was muffled in Claire’s shoulder. “I’ve never seen anyone so angry!”

“It wasn’t you,” Claire began, then bit her lip, torn between the ( _ strange protectiveness she felt toward Jamie _ ) duty to protect her patient’s privacy and the desire to soothe her friend. “He… has some personal things going on. He knows it was an honest mistake and he’s not upset with you.”

Mary pulled back to look at her with wide blue eyes. “He said that?”

“He did.” Claire smiled, giving the girl’s shoulder a squeeze.

The young nurse let that sink in for a moment, and then asked again, hesitantly, “So… you don’t think he’s going to t-try to have me fired?”

“No,” Claire assured her. “I don’t.”  _ He’s apparently ‘no’ the complaining-to-the-manager type _ .’ Pursing her lips a bit, she added more somberly, “But I don’t think an apology would be amiss, either.”   

Mary gave an eager nod. “I want to. Apologize, that is. I was just af-fraid he’d yell at me again if I went back in there.”

Claire smiled. “Would you like me to come with you?”

“Oh,  _ would _ you, Claire?!”

“Of course.” She gave the girl’s arm one last reassuring squeeze before sitting back down at the computer station to chart. “He’s resting now, but I’ll come find you when he’s awake, all right?”

 

* * *

  
  


Jamie slept fitfully. 

There was no sense in trying to get comfortable; that particular luxury was beyond him, and he knew it. Still, he couldn’t help but shift his hips, his shoulders, his spine, searching for that elusive sweet spot where he hurt just a little bit less. All he wanted was to slip past that last barrier and into oblivion, but it seemed there would be no such luck tonight. Even when he managed to quiet his racing mind long enough to let sleep claim him, his traitorous body refused to cooperate. Minutes after drifting off, an inevitable muscle spasm would jolt him awake again, and the whole process started over.

After about two hours of this, he gave up trying.  

He had, up to that point, stubbornly avoided so much as  _ looking _ at the bag Jenny’d brought for him. However, the nurse had left it at eye level, right in front of him, and it was taking considerably more effort to avoid it than to just glare at it with open contempt. So, after a while, he took to doing that instead.

His eyes traced the familiar curves of the green  _ Mordha Market _ logo over and over again, telling himself it was just for lack of anything else to look at in that godforsaken hospital room.

Not because he was homesick.

Not because his first job had been bagging groceries and stocking shelves in that market, back when he was a brash, swaggering idiot of fifteen.

Not because his Da had driven him to work on his first day, clapped a big bear paw of a hand on his shoulder and told him,  _ Ye’re a braw lad, son. I’m proud of ye. _

Slowly, tentatively, Jamie’s fingertips curled over the edge of the grocery bag. He’d just take a wee peek inside, he decided — just to sate his curiosity so he could forget about it and go back to sleep.

A stack of folded construction paper cards was sitting right at the top. In the dim light from the IV pump, he could just make out his nephew’s careful, deliberate crayon handwriting. Abandoning any pretense of disinterest, Jamie grabbed his cell phone from the bedside stand and tapped the flashlight feature on, eagerly lifting the stack of colorful paper into the light beam.

_ YOR THE BEST OKL IN THE HOL WERLD  _ proclaimed the first card. The blue construction paper was decorated with what he believed were supposed to be two Jedi Knights (one small and brown-haired, alongside a big redheaded one) fighting a tyrannosaurus rex. Jamie let out a shaky laugh, beaming through a sheen of tears as he opened the card to find about thirty Star Wars-themed stickers inside. Sandwiched in the middle was an additional note of  _ I hop ye fil betr sun so we can pla Jedis. Love, Yor Favit Nefu (wee Jamie obvusli) _

Setting the first card aside with a trembling smile, he tenderly lifted the next: a pink one this time, with several enthusiastic scribbles in purple, orange, and red crayon. Inside was one more slapdash scribble in green, and a note in Jenny’s hand: _ “This is a horsie eating an apple and a wee carrot, cos Uncle Jamie loves horsies.” -Maggie _

The last card was orange, horizontally folded. Taped to the inside was a Shutterfly print of a chubby baby girl in a pumpkin costume, her wide mouth split in a gummy grin.  _ Spookily Cute!  _ the black glitter font read, and below that, handwritten on the orange construction paper:  _ Katherine, 5 months, Halloween 2018. _

Jamie’s heart skipped a beat at that. Jenny’s youngest had been a wrinkled, red, cone-headed newborn when he left for Boston. He remembered one of the last nights he was home, he’d offered to stay up with the bairn to let his sister and brother-and-law get some sleep. He’d sat on the couch with her all night, stroking her wisps of blond hair, murmuring soft Gaelic nonsense while he swayed her on his bent knees. Looking at the pudgy pink cheeks smiling back at him from the photo now, he tried to reconcile this child with the one he’d held that night, and felt his chest tighten with grief. He knew Jenny hadn’t meant it as such, but the photo was a painful reminder of how much time had been lost — how much he’d missed, stuck half a world away from the family he loved.

Aching with loneliness, he found himself reaching into the bag for more.

He’d say this much for his sister: she was a cunning wee devil. First, she buttered him up with cards from the bairns, and now he discovered a veritable treasure trove of his favorite treats. His eyes lit up like a child’s on Christmas as he pulled out a six-pack of Irn Bru, three boxes of Tunnocks Tea Cakes, a bag of Mackie’s salt and vinegar crisps, and a small tin of Mrs. Crook’s homemade shortbread biscuits. He popped the tin and shoved two of them into his mouth with an appreciative moan before setting the snacks aside and continuing on to the rest of the bag’s contents.

The next item was broader, bulkier; it took a bit of maneuvering to unwedge it from the paper sack without ripping it. Only once it was totally free of the grocery bag did Jamie recognize what it was. He drew the pads of his fingertips slowly across the smooth leather of the photo album, feeling the ache in his chest intensify. The family crest was etched into the front by hand, along with a set of dates: 1990-1995. It had always been Jamie’s favorite album to look through, filled with nostalgic pictures of his infancy and early childhood — memories too old for him to remember himself, but captured in painstaking detail by a mother who had a passion for photography. Since Ellen Fraser had usually been the one behind the camera, a vast majority of the pictures featured Jamie with his father: sitting on his shoulders, cradled on his chest, being hoisted in the air, squealing gleefully over Brian’s laughing, careworn face.

With a shaking breath, Jamie set the album aside, but he let his palm linger on the leather binding, unwilling to sever the connection; unable to face his Da any more than he could let him go.

There was one item left in the bottom of the sack. Something soft — fabric, maybe. Jamie held on to the edge of the grocery bag for a long moment, just breathing. He knew. He already knew what it was going to be.

That knowledge did very little to steady him as he pulled Brian Fraser’s plaid out onto the bed beside him.

It had been washed, pleated, and folded carefully since the last time he’d worn it. Still, it smelled like his Da; like horses, and mud, and straw, and sawdust, and sweat, and heather, and home.

With his nose buried in the soft wool, Jamie finally bowed his head and wept.


	5. Touch

Claire fully expected to find Jamie asleep when she went in to do his midnight vitals.

She thought he was, at first glance. He was laying on his left side with his back to her, facing the window. Reluctant to disturb him, she crept across the room like a shadow, and unwound the stethoscope from her neck as she quietly gathered up the thermometer and blood pressure cuff from their holders on the wall. If a patient was sleeping soundly enough, sometimes she could manage to get their vital signs without waking them at all. For Jamie’s sake, she hoped that would be the case tonight.

She was mid-turn, pivoting back toward him, when a muffled sound froze her in place.

He was trying to be quiet about it — the subtle waver in his open-mouthed breathing, the hitch just before he drew in another breath. But after another beat of silence, she heard it again: the small, strained sound as he tried to smother a sob.

Without a word, Claire set down her instruments and went to him.

As she rounded the far side of the bed, she saw what she had missed the first time: the grocery bag, empty and discarded on the floor, its contents spread out across the endtable and on the mattress in front of him; the long swath of plaid wool, wrapped around Jamie like a blanket and fisted against his tear-stained face.

Claire didn’t bother to grab the wheeled stool this time. She eased herself down onto the bed beside him, sitting in the space created by the bend of his knees. As her warm weight settled against him, Jamie pressed his lips together, chin quivering and dimpled with restraint. He sniffled hard and sucked in a few tight, ragged breaths, visibly trying to rein himself in. With a small shake of her head, Claire reached out to rest her fingertips lightly on the back of his hand.

“It’s all right,” she whispered.

The air slammed out of his lungs with a choked sound, then, and he curled in, curled around her, wracked with sobs that shook his whole frame. Beneath her fingertips, his knuckles haltingly loosened from their fist, fingers unfurled in a silent plea. Without hesitation, Claire slipped her hand into his and squeezed, giving permission to grip her hard, an anchor to hold him while he fell apart.  
  
There was no attempt at platitudes; she knew from personal experience that no words, however kindly meant, would fill the aching chasm his father had left behind. The best thing she could do – the only thing she could do – was take his hand, and be with him.

She lost all sense of time as she sat with him in the darkness, her heart constricting with each cry that ripped from Jamie’s broken body. It wasn’t long, though, before the physical toll from that kind of full-bodied grieving began to overwhelm him; what had begun as juddering, violent sobs devolved into wide-eyed gasping, the lines of his face twisted in agony, the veins around his eyes strained and pulsing. He gripped her hand so tightly her fingers turned purple, his trembling bottom lip pinched between his teeth to keep from crying out. Before the words _professional boundaries_ could even begin to register in her mind, Claire was reaching out to soothe him, tenderly brushing aside an errant curl, stroking the backs of her fingers over his forehead.

The moment it occurred to her what she was doing, she froze, her stomach sinking in complete mortification.

_Jesus H. Christ._ She’d never stepped so far out of line in her entire career. The realization that she was sitting in a patient’s bed – a young _male_ patient – alone in the dark, stroking his face as if he were not a complete stranger… God, what on earth was she thinking? What on earth must _he_ think of her for being so presumptuous?

She’d just started to withdraw her hand, trying to think up an apology for the egregious overstep, when Jamie tilted his head into her palm with a soft whimper.

That’s all it took; any inhibitions she’d harbored dissolved as quickly as they’d taken shape, lost in the visceral need of that sound. Somehow, the recognition that he _needed_ this – needed her comfort – stirred something primal in her, something far beyond the reaches of rational thought. It was instinct alone that caused her to lean in again, releasing her breath on a tremulous exhale. The pads of her fingertips skimmed the warm arc of his cheekbone, then slowly began to trace the raised vein along his temple. Jamie’s eyes drifted shut as he leaned into her touch, making a soft humming sound that made her heart ache.

She could have smashed her pager against the wall when it suddenly pierced the room with its shrill mechanical beeping.

Claire jolted back as if she’d been scalded, hissing a breath through her teeth as she smacked at the bloody thing to silence it. “ _Christ_. I’m so sorry. I should have put it on silent—”

“Och, no.” Jamie immediately released her other hand in embarrassment and tucked his fists up under his chin. “ _I'm_ sorry. I dinna mean to keep ye from yer other patients.”

“No, you’re not. Don’t worry about it, it doesn’t—” Cheeks flaming, Claire found she suddenly couldn’t look at him. There wasn’t anything outwardly wrong with what she’d done; a nurse comforting a grieving patient was nothing out of the ordinary. Still, she was gripped with the sudden, stomach-whirling sensation of having been caught in a compromising situation.

Worse yet, she still didn’t want to leave him.

Lashes lowered, she wrung her fingers as she explained haltingly, “I want to be where I’m needed. Not that I—” She swallowed, giving a little shake of her head. “I don’t mean to say you _need_ me, only that — if you want me to stay...”

“Aye,” he breathed. “I do.” Claire’s eyes snapped up to his, and for a moment she was knocked breathless by the longing written there, the desperate loneliness. She had to forcibly tear her gaze away so she could try to think this through, formulate a plan.

After a meditative pause, she began nodding to herself, lips pursed in thought. “All right.” She climbed decisively to her feet, tapping her nail on the back of her pager before clipping it to her scrub top. “Give me five minutes. I just need to go pass this off to one of the other nurses.”

She saw the shadow of hesitation flicker over Jamie’s face. “I dinna want to be a burden, Claire—”

“You’re not. You won’t be. Trust me. The charge nurse owes me one, anyway. I picked up her last two Saturday shifts in a row; she can certainly watch my pager for a while.” Jamie studied her face for a moment, as if trying to gauge whether or not she was simply trying to placate him. With a gentle smile, Claire reached down to touch his wrist. “It’s all right.”

His own hand came to rest lightly over hers, almost a reflex. After a moment he nodded slowly, his eyes still trained on hers.

“I’ll be right back,” she promised.

 

* * *

 

  
Five minutes, Claire had told him.

She was back in three and a half. Not that Jamie had been counting.

He was being ridiculous, and he knew it. Claire was a kind-hearted lass, to be sure, but she was just doing her job. She was a good nurse. She cared for her patients; all of them, not just him. The only reason she was doing this was because, as she said, he needed her the most right now. Jamie wanted to curse himself for his weakness, for his selfishness, for taking up so much of her time when she had others to think about. But the imprint of her palm still burned on his cheek as if it had been branded there. Christ, it had been so long since he’d known anything but pain. To be sure, his back was hurting something fierce – probably the worst pain he’d had in weeks, if he were to think about it too much. But that was just it; he wasn’t thinking about it. It was as if his brain didn’t have room to process anything beyond the memory of her touch, the desperate yearning to feel it again.

He didn’t have to wait long.

Claire smiled a little as she entered the room, pushing the door shut behind her. “All set,” she announced quietly. “She said we could have as much time as we need.”  

Unsure of what to say, Jamie simply nodded, swallowing against a sand-dry throat. The tension suspended in the air between them was thick enough to cut with a knife; the few feet of distance that separated them were suddenly too much and not nearly enough. Struck shy in the tingling aftermath of their strange emotional intimacy, neither of them could meet the other’s eyes.

At last, it was Claire who broke the silence. She twisted her fingers together, then shrugged a shoulder at the instruments she’d been collecting the last time she came in. “Do you mind if I get your vitals?”  

Jamie shook his head, holding out his left arm obediently. He watched her shoes as she crossed the room and gathered up her supplies, noting offhandedly that she double-knotted her laces. It took nearly all of his concentration to keep his breathing steady as she returned to his bedside and slipped the blood pressure cuff around his upper arm. She worked efficiently, running the automated cuff while she moved the stethoscope around the planes of his chest, listening intently to his heart and lungs. Jamie pursed his lips into a white line, willing the stubborn wee thing not to hammer and give him away. If it did, Claire’s face didn’t show it; there was only polite professionalism as she snapped a clean plastic shield over the thermometer probe and held it up to his mouth. Jamie opened, and obediently maneuvered the probe a bit further back when she reminded him softly, “all the way under your tongue.”

For a fraction of a second he thought the probe was quivering a bit, as though her hand were shaking. He dismissed it as his imagination when the thermometer beeped its reading and Claire turned swiftly away with a flat note of, “98.2, no fever.”

A quick check of his oxygen saturation with the wee glowing clip on his index finger, and then her fingertips came to rest at the pulsepoint in his wrist, her eyes flicking to her watch before glazing over in concentration as she counted silently in her head.

It wasn’t intentional. Jamie wasn’t even fully aware he was doing it; one moment his hand lay limp against hers, and the next his pinky was moving of its own accord, slowly stroking back and forth across the inside of Claire’s wrist. There was a moment when they both recognized it, and neither of them breathed. His eyes dragged slowly up to hers, and as soon as they locked into whisky gold, the words tumbled out of him before he could stop them.

“Ye ken ye’re the first person to…” He caught himself just shy of the precipice, burning pink straight to his ears, snatching the confession back before he could embarrass himself further. He dropped his hand and his eyes away from hers, shaking his head to clear it. “Och, never mind.”

“What?” her voice was barely a whisper. “Tell me.”

Before he could second guess himself again, his fingertips sought hers, lightly skimming the delicate warmth of them. He hardly recognized his own voice as he confessed quietly, hoarsely, “Ye’re the first person to touch me since I’ve been here.”

The silence stretched on a beat too long, and Jamie felt the heat creep up his neck. His hand stilled, but he didn’t dare look up at her again.

He heard the tinge of confusion in her voice as she finally clarified, “Been here… on this unit?”

The corner of his mouth tightened in a sad smile. “Since I’ve been in the hospital, I mean.”

Claire’s breath hitched. She inhaled slowly and let it out in a trembling gust before asking tentatively, “And… how long have you—?”

“Six weeks, more or less.”

He heard her throat working to swallow as her fingers twined through his and slotted into the grooves of his knuckles. She opened her mouth, let out a stifled half-breath, and then closed it again.

“I ken it’s daft,” Jamie apologized, chewing nervously on the inside of his lip. “The nurses in the ICU explained it to me, why they had to put on all their gear before they came into my room. The gowns and the gloves and the masks and such. I ken it was to protect me. And I dinna mean to say no one laid a hand on me that whole time. They did, it was just…”

“Sterile,” Claire finished, finally finding her voice. “Clinical.” Something about her tone drew his gaze up to hers, and he found her amber eyes aching and damp with compassion. She shook her head a little, lips pursed. “It’s not daft at all, Jamie. Humans need touch. It’s… it’s why we put newborn babies on their mothers’ chests the moment they’re born. We need skin contact.”

“Aye,” he breathed, as her grip on his knuckles relaxed and she slid her fingers down, drawing them slowly, deliberately along the backs of his. “Didna realize it until ye took my hand earlier, how long it’s been. It felt…” He tried and failed to find the right words, lapsing into silence. Claire turned his hand over so that her palm lay flat against his, and they both watched, mesmerized, as their fingers began to glide over one another, rippling over the lines and dips of each other’s hands. They sat in silence that way for a long time, watching their fingertips move in a slow, rhythmless dance – drifting, circling, drawing together and splaying out over palms and wrists and fingers. Jamie had known, vaguely, that there were thousands of nerve endings in his hands, but never before had he felt them come _alive_ the way they did against Claire’s skin, sparking and tingling as if they’d created an electrical current between them.

It was deprivation, he rationalized. Six weeks was a long time to go without touch, and as she’d said ( _she was a nurse, certainly she must know these things_ ), skin contact was a basic human necessity. Jamie made a valiant effort to convince himself that it explained _this_ … whatever it was, thrumming between them.

_This,_ as she reached her other hand down to touch his face, gently stroking the pad of her thumb over his cheekbone.

_This_ , as she threaded her fingers back into the roots of his hair, and began to draw slow, meandering figure eights across his scalp.

As she worked her way back toward his nape, Claire paused here and there to tease apart a tangled curl, then twine the lock around her finger to create a smooth ringlet. When she brushed a sensitive spot just behind his ear, a warm, tingling shiver went down Jamie’s spine and spread out across his limbs in prickles of gooseflesh. He felt almost dizzy with pleasure, breathing out a sound somewhere between a whimper and a sigh. He sensed, rather than saw, Claire smile, and barely registered that she had asked him a question.

Peeping an eye halfway open, he hummed, “Mm?”

“I said you have some beautiful cards here,” Claire repeated, her fingers never ceasing their dance through his hair. “Are those from your children?”

“My nieces and nephew,” he answered, closing his eyes again. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought he heard her breathe out a soft sigh of relief.

“Your sister’s children?”

“Mmphm. Wee Jamie, Maggie, and Katherine.”

“Tell me about them,” she suggested. “About your family.”

Relaxed and pliable as putty in her hands, he would have told her the sky was green and the grass was blue if she’d asked it of him. Talking about the bairns was easy enough. He started off by telling her the basics about each of them – their ages, what they looked like, what sorts of things they liked to do and play and watch on the telly. He told her how he and his wee namesake would chase each other around the living room, bouncing on the couch cushions when Jenny wasn’t looking, bashing each other with pool noodle “lightsabers.” At Claire’s insistence, he even did his best impression of the sound effects he used for such occasions, delighted when it made her giggle.

She had a bonny laugh.

Eager to hear it again, Jamie propped himself up on an elbow, his eyes twinkling as he got more and more engaged in his storytelling. Oh, he had some braw tales to tell her – stories about the _weans_ , aye, but even more about his own childhood, all the antics he’d gotten up to with his siblings, Willie and Jenny. They’d been wild wee things, impish and prone to all kinds of mischief. He couldn’t even count the number of times they’d run his poor mother red-faced and haggard, bellowing at them out the kitchen window, _Jus’ you wait ‘til yer father gets home!_

Jamie sobered suddenly as those words left his mouth, his shrill impression of his mother’s voice fading into an aching silence. A muscle in his jaw twitched, and he worked it back and forth for a moment to keep it from cramping. Claire’s hands, which she’d been holding in her lap while he gesticulated animatedly, suddenly enveloped his hand again, her thumbs drawing comforting circles across his palm.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked softly. Jamie was still and silent for a moment, staring blankly ahead, and she amended, “You don’t have to, I just—”

“No, I want to,” he answered finally, and found that he meant it. His eyes moved to their entwined hands, watching the slow, mesmerizing caress of fingers for a while before he spoke again. “I ken that… that most people think they have the best dad. But mine truly was.” His tone had gone raspy already, and he swallowed twice to try to clear it. “He put up wi’ so much shite from me as a lad. He was such a… a good man, Claire. I didna deserve him.” His voice broke in earnest, then, and Claire squeezed his hands gently, drawing his tear-filled eyes up to hers. “Have ye ever heard of a man lovin’ someone to death?”

Claire thought for a moment, then whispered, “Yes, I suppose I have. Elderly couples who die within a few hours of one another, things like that.”

“How about a father, dyin’ for the love of his son?” he asked, chin quivering on the verge of a sob.

She wet her lips, releasing a shaky breath. “No,” she admitted softly.

“He was a _good_ man,” he said again. “He didna deserve—” He released her hands and swiped angrily at his tears, pressing the heels of his palms to his eyes. “It was supposed to be _me_.”

“Jamie…” She knelt in front of him, her hands gripping his shoulders. “Your father had a heart condition. You can’t blame yourself for—”

“Aye, I _can_ , and I do!” he insisted, letting his hands drop from his eyes so he could turn his tear-streaked glare on her. “It's my fault.”

Claire was shaking her head, a single, glistening tear beading at the corner of her eyelid. “It was an accident, Jamie,” she whispered.

“Aye, and if I ever find the bastard who blew through that light, I’ll—” He clenched his hands into fists, breathing hard through gritted teeth. His chest collapsed once on a broken sob, and he shook his head miserably. “But it was my fault too, Claire. My phone dropped on the floor, and I took my seatbelt off to grab it. If I hadna done that, I wouldn’t have gone through the windshield, and this whole thing would never have—” His throat finally closed, then, and he turned his face into his pillow, choked and shuddering with grief.

Christ, he was already so sick of crying.

It seemed Claire’d had enough of it, too. By the time Jamie wept himself into a restless sleep, the room around him was empty, his nurse long gone.  


	6. Shattered Glass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't hate me. I did say it was going to be an angst fest and a rocky road, aye? It's gonna be okay, guys. *pats your hair verra gently*

Claire didn’t remember leaving him. Crossing the room, opening the door, shutting it behind her. She supposed she must have; when she regained any sort of dim awareness of her surroundings, she found herself standing in the middle of the hallway, staring vacantly at the scuffed linoleum floor. Blinking, she slowly lifted her hands, watching them tremble with the clinical fascination of a scientist studying a specimen under a microscope.

 _It’s shock,_ her professional mind registered. _I’m going into shock._

A faint peppery sensation tingled at the back of her neck. Subtle, at first, superficial; a mild, prickling heat that skittered across the nerves in her scalp. It gained momentum as it roiled deeper into her skull, like an ocean wave nearing shore. When the churning warmth broke over her temporal bones, her whole head started to ring.

When it touched her spinal cord, she saw black spots, and swayed on her feet.

 

* * *

 

 

_“You’re drunk.”_

_Claire pitched forward, laughing so hard the veins in her temples stood out. Her ankles wobbled on four-inch stilettos, and she crashed headlong against her boyfriend’s side, cackling all the harder._

_“Uhh, I’m the birthday girl? I’m_ s’posed _to be drunk!” She used his shoulder to push herself upright, but overcompensated; teetering on her heels, she flailed backwards. Frank caught her by the waist just before she went over. She gave an appreciative hum as she pulled his mouth down to hers. “What’s your excuse?”_

_“Excuse for what? I’m sober as a judge.”_

_“Liar.” She smirked, taking his lower lip in her teeth._

_“I am!” he laughed._

_“After two cognacs and a Manhattan?”_

_“Three cognacs, actually. I grabbed another while you were in the ladies’ room.”_

_“Mm. Well. I’m not sure what kind of judges_ you’re _keeping company with, but…_ I _—” She giggled as he kissed a line across her collarbone, rummaging in her clutch for her cell phone. “... am getting us an Uber.”_

_“Completely unnecessary. Look. Claire, look! Watch.” Still spitting out little raspberries of laughter, Frank rolled his spine upright and squared his shoulders. He attempted — and failed — a serious expression as he held his arms out in an impression of a tightrope walker, balanced precariously along the crack in the sidewalk. Once or twice, he wheeled his arms about for dramatic effect, reducing Claire to stitches; but, to his credit, his feet never once strayed from the line._

_Eyes sparkling with mischief, she dug through the inside zip pocket of her clutch. “Think fast!” she blurted, and then her little black key fob was hurtling through the air. Frank caught it one-handed, and barked out a triumphant laugh._

_“See? What did I tell you? Catlike reflexes.” He sauntered over to her, dangling the key fob from one finger. With a chuckle, he dropped his smirking mouth to her neck and nipped. Claire let out a breathy laugh of her own, and tilted her head to allow him better access as he followed the carotid up to her jawline, then kissed his way over to her mouth. She couldn’t remember her own name by the time he pulled away._

_“But seriously, darling, if it’ll make you feel better, go ahead and call an Uber.”_

_“No,” she said, an easy smile blooming across her face. “It’s alright.”_

_“You’re sure? Because I really don’t mind—”_

_“No, it’s fine.” She rose on tiptoe to peck his lips one last time. “It’s bloody freezing, let’s just go.” The light cardigan she’d thrown on earlier in the evening was proving woefully inadequate against the crisp October wind. Frank looked down at the goosebumps prickling up and down her arms, and quickly whisked off his suit coat and draped it around her shoulders. Claire leaned gratefully into the crook of his arm as they walked back to the car together, swaying just a little._

_When he opened the passenger door for her, she looked up at him through her lashes, teasing the hem of her dress up a bit as she sat – a promise of what was waiting when they got back to her place. Frank wet his lips subconsciously, his eyes darkening. Tucking her long legs into the car, Claire gave him a wink as she pulled her seat belt on. He shut the door and jogged around the front of the SUV, an eager grin plastered across his face. He was breathless by the time he plunked down in the driver’s seat and strapped himself in._

_“What’s the fastest way back to your flat?” he asked, hazel eyes roaming her thighs hungrily._

_“Take Berkeley up to Storrow.” The words were barely out of her mouth before he hit the gas. The tires squealed as they tore out of their parking spot and onto the road. Claire grabbed at her door handle to steady herself, shrieking a little, torn between terror and delight. “_ Frank!"

_He eased off the gas just a touch, shooting her a shit-eating grin. “Oh, don’t pretend for a moment that this is my fault! You cannot tease a man like that and expect him not to blow through every stoplight on the way home.”_

_Claire felt weightless, reckless; high on a heady combination of adrenaline and gin and lust. Grinning right back at him, she hiked her skirt up further, teasing her fingers along the inside of her thigh. “Mm. Well. It rather defeats the purpose if you kill us before we get home.” She gave a throaty laugh at the look on his face, tipping her head back against the headrest as her fingers ventured further up. “Eyes on the road, Professor Randall.”_

 

* * *

 

“Hey, you okay, Claire?”

She had to blink several times before she could clear her head enough to lift her gaze. The night shift tech, Elias, stood a few feet away, holding an empty food tray that he’d been clearing from a patient’s room. He was a short, round-faced young man; one of their newer hires, barely eighteen — a sweet boy, and a hard worker. His kind brown eyes were locked on hers, mouth drawn tight with concern.

Not trusting herself to speak, Claire attempted a smile and twirled her index finger in a self-deprecating gesture of absentmindedness. Elias returned a small smile of his own, but hesitated, watching her uncertainly for another moment before finally continuing on his way. Her face fell the moment he was gone.

She thought she was going to be sick.

Swallowing against a gathering pool of bitter saliva, she crossed the hallway in starts and stops. Her limbs felt too light — cottony, boneless — their movements twitchy and uncoordinated, as if she were a marionette controlled by an amateur puppeteer. The thought made her want to laugh hysterically. Instead, she collapsed, shaking and silent, into a computer chair at the charting station. For a while she simply sat hunched over, holding her head in her hands, trying not to vomit.

 

* * *

 

_She expected a proposal, if she was being honest. They’d been dating just shy of two years, and it made sense; her thirtieth birthday, the candlelit ambiance of the four-star restaurant, the rather extravagant bottle of champagne they’d polished off with dinner. They were both dressed to the nines: Frank in an Armani suit and imported Italian Oxfords, Claire in her most flattering little black dress (sleeveless, form-fitting, with a cleavage-enhancing neckline and a hem just high enough to tease). She’d dabbed her pulse points with Le Labo, spent two hours on her hair and makeup, and dropped a small fortune on a pair of red heels to complete the evening’s ensemble. On a whim, she’d even gone so far as to get a French manicure – the first she’d bothered with in years – knowing she’d have to remove it for work on Monday, but not before she got that Instagram-perfect engagement ring shot._

_Or so she’d thought._

_There’d been plenty of opportunities throughout dinner; natural lulls in the conversation, lingering romantic gazes exchanged over the rims of their champagne flutes. She offered Frank her left hand to hold frequently throughout the evening, trying to be as encouraging as possible without being obvious about it._

I’ll say yes _, she tried to convey through her glass face._ Just ask. The answer is yes.

_But he hadn’t asked. Not through any of their five courses, not when the cheque arrived, not when he put a hand to the small of her back and guided her out of the restaurant. Not outside under a sky full of stars, and not in the quaint, upscale little bar where they’d stopped in for a nightcap. Fortunately, a few gin-and-tonics later, Claire was too far gone to care that the night hadn’t gone quite as she’d hoped._

_Rather, she didn’t care_ as much _._

_And, in all fairness, the night wasn’t over yet._

_She’d already checked the pockets of the suit coat Frank had draped around her for a little velvet box; no such luck, though of course he was far too meticulous to have made such a flippant mistake, no matter how many drinks he’d had. Claire’s heavy-lidded eyes lingered thoughtfully over the pockets of his trousers as he drove, trying to decide whether or not there was a discernible bulge on either side. Of course, there was no mistaking the rather more prominent bulge in between. Seeing her intent stare in that general direction, Frank drew his own conclusions._

_“See something you like?” he asked, smirking like the cat who got the canary._

_Claire smiled back, stretching a long arm up to drape over his headrest. “Not sure,” she admitted, teasing her fingers through the short hairs at the nape of his neck until he shivered.  She traced her index finger slowly down his neck and along the rim of his starched collar, making a swirling pattern as she reached the fine dusting of hair just above his top button. “Should I take a closer look and find out?”_

_Frank sucked in a shuddering breath, his Adam’s apple bobbing, as her finger drew down his sternum and steadily lower. “Yes, I—” Another sharp inhale as she reached the clasp of his slacks. “I think that’s a splendid idea.”_

_She flattened her palm and took his zipper between her thumb and forefinger, inching her pinky out to the right so that she could discreetly palpate the pocket closest to her._

_Nothing._

_Biting the inside of her lip in concentration, Claire succeeded in getting the zipper down and slipped her hand inside, masking her attempt to wriggle her thumb over toward that left pocket by kneading Frank into distraction._

_He closed his eyes and groaned._

_Everything happened so quickly after that._

_The flash of white lights, the blur of motion too late to avoid. The horrible, deafening sound of metal ripping apart, tires screeching, glass breaking._

_The airbag deployed just in time to catch the full impact of Claire whipping forward. She rebounded violently, slammed back against her seat, cracking the crown of her head against the headrest._

_She gasped once. Tasted blood._

_Then everything went black._

 

* * *

 

She knew.

In the marrow of her bones, she knew.

Of course, it could be coincidence — the time frame, the few details Jamie had shared. How many car accidents were there in Boston on any given week?

 _Six weeks,_ he’d said. _More or less._

More or less.

Six weeks, twenty-three hours, four minutes. If it was… if _he_ was…

Well. There was one way to find out for certain.

With an eerie, preternatural calm, Claire pulled the keyboard closer and logged into the computer. She pulled up his chart, feeling as though she were somehow detached from her body, looking on from a short distance away. A few clicks into the notes section, then several seconds of scrolling, all the way down to the bottom, to the very first entry.

 

**_HISTORY AND PHYSICAL EXAMINATION_ **

_10/21/2018   02:12_

_CHIEF COMPLAINT: Motor Vehicle Accident_

_HISTORY OF PRESENT ILLNESS: Mr. Fraser is a 26 year-old Caucasian male who presents to the emergency department with severe traumatic injuries and hemorrhagic shock resulting from a motor vehicle accident. He was an unrestrained driver involved in a head-on collision, ejected through the windshield and found unconscious on the ground, approximately 10 feet from the vehicle. No reliable historian present to indicate length of time between the accident and arrival of EMS on site (hit-and-run, no witnesses). C-spine immobilization performed at the scene and aggressive fluid resuscitation begun en route to the hospital..._

 

She stopped reading.

Closed the tab.

Got up. Walked slowly to the nurses’ station, weaving slightly with each step.

 

* * *

 

_Her ears were ringing._

_It was the first thing she was aware of when she regained consciousness: the low, flat, monotonous hum, drowning out everything around her._

_The second thing she was aware of was the coppery taste in her mouth. She coughed, putting the back of her wrist to her mouth. When she pulled it away, it was smeared with blood. She stared blankly at it for a long moment._

_Then the pain hit._

_Claire hissed through her teeth, squeezing her eyes shut and going perfectly still on instinct. For a while she simply sat in a daze, trying to remember to breathe. At last, she forced her eyes open again, trying to harness her nursing assessment skills through the fog of shock and intoxication. Her neck seemed to be the worst off; whiplash, that made sense. No numbness or tingling in her extremities, so likely no spinal damage. She’d hit the back of her head on the rebound, but the foam padding of the headrest had cushioned the blow; no blood, only a slight goose egg. Her next concern was her clavicle — the seatbelt had caught her hard, and there was a very real chance it was broken. She probed her fingertips delicately across the diagonal path of her torso, palpating, testing. There was no immediate, obvious jut of bone to indicate a larger break, but she’d need an x-ray to rule out hairline fractures. As for her mouth, that seemed to be a simple contusion from biting down on her cheek. A bloody mess, but superficial._

You’re alright, _she soothed herself, letting out a shaky sigh._ It’s alright. You’re all in one piece. It could have been so much worse.

_And then she remembered Frank._

_Turning her head to the left proved to be an exercise in controlled agony, but she forced herself through it, needing to see him, to know if…_

_But he wasn’t there._

_She stared, uncomprehending, at the open driver’s side door, the deflated airbags. There was no blood, no broken glass. Terrified, she tried to call his name. Only a hoarse rasp came out. Swallowing hard against a tight throat, she tried again._

_“Frank? FRANK!”_

_There was the sound of footsteps on pavement, and then he appeared around the edge of the car door, pale, wide-eyed, but apparently unharmed. Tears of relief sprung to Claire’s eyes, and she let out a hoarse sob._

_“You’re alright,” she gasped._

_He gave a weak nod and looked her once-over. “I am. You?”_

_She pursed her lips and swiped at her tears, making a soft, wavering hum of confirmation. Frank nodded again, his eyes glassy. He scrubbed a hand over his face and back through his hair, then pointed a trembling finger off behind him. “I don’t…” he muttered, shaking his head. “I don’t think he is.”_

_Claire frowned through her tears. “What?”_

_Frank leaned his head against the roof of the car, his throat bobbing with a swallow. “I think he’s dead, Claire.” A sob caught in his chest, and he let out a guttural, shaky groan. “Jesus Christ, I think he’s dead.”_

 

* * *

 

Gillian looked up over her shoulder as Claire came to stand in the open archway. “There y’are. Was beginning to wonder if ye–” Whatever wisecrack had been budding on the tip of her tongue, it dissolved into a guttural sound of Scottish concern as she turned and actually got a good look at her friend. The charge nurse was on her feet in a split second, then, hands hovering over Claire’s upper arms. “Jesus, ye’re pale as a ghost! Sit down before ye fall down.”

“I have to go,” Claire rasped, eyes unfocused, staring blankly at a spot over the charge nurse’s shoulder.

“What happened?”

She shook her head once, eyes flashing a warning to her friend not to press the issue. “I have to go,” she said again, her voice breaking over the last word.

“Alright. I – alright. Uh… I’ve already got yer pager, aye? I’ll figure it out. Go. Take care of whatever ye need to do. I’ve got ye.” Claire gave a small nod and turned to leave, but stopped when Gill asked, “Can I call ye a cab? Or you can borrow my car if ye need...”

“ _No_ ,” she choked, putting a shaking palm to the wall to keep herself upright. Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to steady her voice as she answered without turning, “No, thank you. I’ll be fine.”

Gill let out a helpless little groan. “Gah, just – just text me when ye’re home safe, alright? And if ye need anything, just–”

“I will.”

 

* * *

 

_Try as she might, she couldn’t reconcile the words coming out of Frank’s mouth with any semblance of reality. Her mouth opened and closed several times before she managed to choke out, “Who? Who’s dead?”_

_Frank heaved in two big breaths before he answered, “The other driver. He went through the windshield.”_

_… The other driver._ Jesus H. Christ _. She hadn’t even thought about… but of course, it had been a head-on collision. She’d seen the oncoming headlights in the millisecond before impact._

_It took a few seconds for her head to clear, for her professional instincts to kick in with full force. Someone was severely hurt, possibly coding right this moment. She needed to get herself together, get out, get to him, call for help. Start CPR if need be. They were only a few miles from the hospital. If she could just keep him alive until the ambulance got here…_

_Her hands were shaking as she fumbled with the latch to her seat belt. Frank’s head snapped up at the sound, his eyes going wide._

_“What are you doing?”_

_“I’ve got to help him,” she said, finally managing to get the seatbelt free. It recoiled into its holder, and her hand went to the door._

_In the split second before she could pull the handle, there was a mechanical clicking sound. She pulled the handle, twice. Three times._

_It wouldn’t budge._

_She glanced over at Frank, confused, thinking perhaps the accident had messed with the wiring somehow._

_It took her a moment to recognize that his finger was on the child lock button._

_There was sympathy in his eyes, but his mouth was set in a white line. He shook his head firmly as he slid into the driver’s seat. “We need to go.”_

_Claire’s mouth was suddenly dry as sandpaper. “What?” she squeaked out. “Frank, he needs help!”_

_“What are you going to do, Claire? He’s dead.”_

_The reality of what he was suggesting began to register, and her heart picked up pace, approaching a state of panic. “Bloody CPR, Frank, that’s what I’m going to do! Unlock the door!”_

_“You’re drunk,” he said, infuriatingly calm, shutting his own door and shifting the car into reverse. “You’re not thinking rationally about this.”_

_“What are you doing? STOP! We can’t just_ – _”_

 _“Listen to the words coming out of my mouth, Claire._ Listen _. Vehicular homicide. It’s a felony here. Do you want to be locked away in an American prison for the rest of your life?”_

_“It was an accident!” her voice had risen to a near-shriek, and she was ripping frantically at the door handle as though it would make a difference. “We can’t leave him!”_

_“There’s nothing we can do for him. He’ll bleed out long before an ambulance gets here.”_

_“Then GO, Frank!” she screamed. “If you’re so fucking worried about it, let me out and leave! But I have to at least_ try! _”_

_“I’m not going to let you do that, darling.” His hands clenched and unclenched on the steering wheel, eyes locked straight ahead; he flat-out refused to look at her. “I won’t let you throw your life away on a drunken whim. You can hate me for it now, but you’ll see the reason for it when you’ve sobered up.”_

_Her rage boiled over into an incoherent scream as he spun the wrecked-but-still-running car around and shifted it into drive. She banged the heel of her hand ineffectually against the window, tried the door handle so many times she thought it might snap off in her hand. Ignoring the searing pain in her neck, she strained to try to find the man who was hurt. She caught a glimpse of him, finally, in the side-view mirror as Frank took a right hand turn down a side street. He was far enough away that she could only make out a dim silhouette: a large man sprawled out on his back, unmoving, laying in a pool of blood and shattered glass. She couldn’t tell if he was still breathing._

_The sight of him only renewed the fight in her. Reaching across the center console, she tried to rip at Frank’s sleeve as he tore off at a frightening speed, her voice rising to a frantic crescendo._

_“Let me out of the fucking car, Frank! LET ME OUT!”_

_He only drove faster._


	7. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short one, I realize, but I feel like it ends where it needs to. The next chapter should be up later this week (Thursday or Friday?)

“Dinna mind me, Mr. Fraser.” 

The warm familiarity of a Scottish burr drew Jamie to the surface of consciousness. He hovered there for a moment, lost in the hazy interlude between waking and sleeping, with no recollection of where he was, or why. Turning his face into the pillow, he gave a low grumble of acknowledgement, but didn’t fully rouse until the woman’s voice whispered, “Just fetching a quick set of vitals, and then ye can go straight back tae sleep.” 

His eyes cracked open then, squinting up at the owner of the voice. She was a bonny lass, ginger and fair, with wide, round eyes and a mouth that seemed to be perpetually tipped up in amusement at some private joke. Jamie vaguely recognized her as one of the nurses who’d helped get him settled when he transferred down from the ICU, but couldn’t put a name to the face. 

As if sensing his line of thought, she offered him her hand as she dragged the vitals machine over with her foot. “Gillian,” she reminded him, with a surprisingly strong handshake for such a wee lass. “We met when ye first got to the floor.”

“I remember,” Jamie said, only a partial lie. He lifted his arm so she could wrap the blood pressure cuff around it. “Ye don’t meet many fellow Scots in this part of the world.”

Without missing a beat, she deadpanned in a flawless New York accent, “Oh, I’m from Long Island, actually.” Jamie gave a snort of laughter, but while the nurse’s eyes twinkled, she managed to hold an impressively straight face. She let a beat of silence lapse as she took his temperature and checked his oxygen level, then admitted with a little smirk, “Glasgow. You?”

“Wee town a few miles outside Inverness. You wouldna ken it.”

“Try me.”

“Broch Mordha?”

Her smirk broadened. “Ye’re right, never heard of it.” Tipping her head to one side, she considered him thoughtfully for a moment. “A Highlander, eh? _A bheil Gàidhlig agad?”_

Jamie’s eyebrows lifted. Even as a Highlander born and bred, he could count on one hand the number of people outside his immediate family who had any Gaelic. “ _Tha, dh’ionnsaich m’athair dhomh_ . _Agas thu?_ ” [ _Aye, my Da taught me_. _You?_ ]

“[ _My Gran was from the Western Isles. She kept the old ways_. _Refused to speak a word of English, pretended she didna understand it. Used to drive me mad. I’m grateful for it now, though._ ]” 

“[ _Aye, so am I. It’s nice to have someone around who understands it. Not many people do, even back home._ ]” He smiled softly, and Gillian nodded, her eyes taking on a mischievous glint. 

“[ _We can use it to our advantage, ye ken? Gossip about the sassenachs to our heart’s content, and they’ll be no’ the wiser_.]”

Jamie’s smile dissipated then, his eyes flicking to the open door. “Speaking of which,” he said, transitioning fluidly back into English, “I hope I didna say or do anything to offend Claire. If I did, I—”

“Och, no, it’s nothin’ tae do with ye. She had an emergency and had to leave for the night.”

He abruptly propped himself up on an elbow, brow furrowed. “Is she alright?” 

Gillian shrugged, but the look on her face was not particularly reassuring. “I’m sure she’s fine.”

A thought occurred to Jamie as he settled back against the pillows, fretting his bottom lip between his teeth. “Her phone kept buzzing earlier, like someone was tryin’ tae get a hold of her.” 

“Aye, weel, whatever it was, she had to leave in a hurry. Sorry for the inconvenience, lad, but it looks like ye’re stuck with me for the rest of the night.”

“[ _Lord, have mercy on my soul_ ],” he teased, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Gillian crossed herself and winked as she pulled up his chart on the wheeled computer. A few taps of the keys, a question about his pain ( _“Four,” he lied_ ), a quick check of his IV site, and then she was off to her next patient, calling cheerfully over her shoulder to give her a buzz if he needed anything.

She was a braw lass, Jamie decided. Funny, friendly.

… He missed Claire.  

 

* * *

 

It was 4:30 AM, forty degrees, and drizzling when she stepped out onto her front porch. Claire watched her breath shimmer in the air as she braced a foot on the wrought iron railing, mentally ticking off each muscle group as she stretched: _hamstrings, quads, calves, glutes, obliques_. Neat boxes, neat checkmarks; simple, efficient, and organized.

She could do this. Mental and physical discipline, that’s all she needed. 

She was fine.

Popping her earbuds in, she cranked up her _Florence and the Machine_ playlist and set off down the rain-slicked pavement. Despite the inclement weather, she opted to take one of her longer jogging routes, crossing the Charles at the Museum of Science Bridge and following the river until she doubled back at the Anderson Foot Bridge. A little over eight miles, in total; nothing she couldn’t handle. She’d push herself, run hard, be back in time to shower, and hit the farmer’s market to get some fresh produce for lunch. After that, she’d deep clean the kitchen; she’d been meaning to reorganize her pantry and really scrub down the backsplash behind the stove. A cup of tea, then she’d reward herself by tackling the pile of dust-covered books that had been sitting on the back of her toilet for over a year now. Perhaps she would run errands after that... there was a dress draped over the end of her bedpost because she hadn’t had a chance to drop it off at the dry cleaners yet. She could do that, too. 

It had been a stunning realization to her, looking around her poor, neglected flat at 3 o’clock in the morning: she didn’t strictly _need_ to work to stay busy. There were so many things she was behind on, things she’d let slide in favor of working overtime, and for what? Extra money to sit untouched in her bank account, paid time off accumulating to the point that she’d nearly hit her maximum? Certainly, she’d earned a break. That was a thing healthy people did: get away for awhile, breathe the fresh air, rest and recharge.

_Escape the living, breathing reminder of what you—_

She turned the music up louder. Focused on her form, her pace, her breathing; the smack of her footfalls on the pavement; the pleasant burn of working muscles; the trickle of sweat dripping down the center of her back...

 _“..._ _Ripped his back clean off. Three skin grafts sae far and he’s still a hot mess...”_

Grunting, she pushed herself faster. Harder. Watched the heart rate on her Fitbit climb to 160… 165...

“ _Had every complication in the book: sepsis, necrosis, shock. Too many blood transfusions to count. Puir bugger. Dinna blame him for bein’ like he is._ ”

170... 175...

_“He was so angry. I’ve never seen anyone so angry!”_

Jesus H. Christ, _of course_ he was angry. His whole world had been ripped apart in a moment of fucking carelessness. One stupid drunken mistake had landed him in an ICU, wracked with unfathomable pain, infection, surgeries _—_ untouched and alone _—_ for six bloody weeks. It had cost him his _father_ …

180… 185…

_“Aye, and if I ever find the bastard who blew through that light, I’ll—”_

190… 195.

She’d shattered him. Not just a nameless, faceless form; a big man in a pool of blood and broken glass. _Jamie_. Jamie Fraser. Twenty six, from Scotland. He had red curls, and blue eyes. He was handsome. Intelligent. He had a sister, Jenny, two nieces and a nephew. His eyes lit up when he spoke about his family. He was kind and gentle. He liked sweets. He did a very good lightsaber impression. 

He made a soft sound when she touched his cheek. 

200... 

Eyes glazed with tears, trainers pounding the concrete in a frantic blur, Claire wasn’t paying any attention to where she was running. She was halfway through an intersection when the light turned red, and the car that had been waiting to turn left blared its horn as it swerved behind her, tires screeching on the wet pavement.

_The flash of white lights, the blur of motion too late to avoid..._

She fell to her knees at the curb, clutching to the light pole for dear life, her heart threatening to crack through her ribcage.  

_The horrible, deafening sound of metal ripping apart, tires screeching, glass breaking..._

Blind and shaking with terror, she dropped her forehead against the metal pole and sobbed until she couldn’t breathe.


	8. Ego Te Absolvo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quite a bit of dialogue from the end of this chapter was taken directly from "To Ransom a Man's Soul." All due credit to Ira and Ron for the beautiful script.

Claire made it exactly five steps from the light pole before her stomach revolted. 

Another two to stagger to the side of an insurance building, open-palmed against the wet red brick.

She retched violently behind its well-manicured hedge. 

There wasn’t much for her roiling gut to surrender; she honestly couldn’t remember the last thing she’d eaten. She brought up what foamy green bile there was, then made an aborted attempt at pushing herself upright. Halfway up, she doubled over again, wracked with a second wave of lurching spasms — gagging, dry-heaving; her body’s desperate attempt at exorcism, at purging the knot of guilt that had taken up permanent residence in the pit of her stomach. 

It didn’t work.

She dropped her forehead against the brick as broken flashes of memory stuttered across the red-black of her eyelids.

_{a smear of blood on the deflated airbag}_

_{the taut snap of the door handle against her fingertips}_

_{a trickle of sweat rolling down Frank’s temple}_

_{the glint of a streetlight on crushed glass}_

Sniffling and humming miserably, Claire swiped at her nose and mouth with the wrist of her hoodie, as though it made a damned bit of difference; as though she weren’t already soaked to the skin; as though the rain wasn’t still whipping at her in slanted sheets.

As though any of it mattered.

She deserved this. Every bit of it, and then some: the PTSD, the night terrors, the insomnia, the crippling anxiety — the guilt that had consumed her whole and whittled her down to a shell of herself, too thin and too pale, anemic and exhausted. Pushed to the limits of her mental and physical capacity, she’d spent the past six weeks teetering precariously on the brink of a full-scale meltdown.

And that was before she knew about Jamie. 

Somehow, it had been easier when she thought him dead.

The assumption that the stranger in the road had died on impact had been some slight consolation to her while lying awake in the middle of the night, watching her ceiling fan spin. It was the minuscule scrap of solace that she’d clung to in her darkest hours: it had been quick. He hadn’t suffered.

Christ, but ignorance was bliss.

She’d seen for herself now. Touched. Gently traced gloved fingers over Jamie’s ruined flesh: the angry, inflamed red patch just below his left shoulder, where infection had taken root; the mounds of unnaturally smooth skin amidst a ravaged landscape, where flesh from his thighs had been grafted to the shreds of his back; the deep gash that sliced him diagonally from trapezius to hip — suctioned shut with a wound vac at first, then cut open again by the surgeons to drain a tunneling abscess — now packed three times a day with wet, sterile gauze. 

She’d heard him hiss through his teeth when she packed the wound herself. Watched him bite down on his lip to keep from crying out, take white-knuckled fistfuls of bedding in his shaking hands. Felt his muscles quiver while she murmured apologies under her breath, reminding him that she could fetch the morphine at any time.  

She’d cradled his face in her hands, brushed her fingertips over the premature lines etched around his eyes and mouth from six weeks of clenching against the pain.

So she knew. Intimately. 

She knew exactly what she’d done to him.

What she didn’t know was how to look at herself in the mirror anymore. 

How to live with herself, how to function, when it felt as though the guilt was clawing its way out of her chest cavity, leaving her open, exposed, raw and bleeding and desperately, desperately vulnerable. 

She wasn’t sure she could do this.

Choking out small, whimpering sobs, she pushed herself upright on shaking arms and started moving again. It was the only thing she could think to do; the very last self-preservation instinct she possessed. 

 _Keep calm and carry on,_ she mocked herself scathingly. _How very British of you._

Still, she didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Inertia had never been a friend to Claire. If she lingered… if she let herself dwell too long, she knew in her bones that she would be lost. 

Shoulders hunched against the downpour, arms wrapped tight around herself, she let her feet carry her where they would. As she wandered, a disjointed film reel looped over and over in her mind’s eye, rehashing the night of the accident for what felt like the thousandth time. She stopped, rewound, and tried again, playing out countless different scenarios — countless minuscule alterations in what she’d said or done or implied at various points throughout the evening, each of which might have changed things. 

_If only she hadn’t agreed to the nightcap._

_If only she’d insisted on an Uber._

_If only she hadn’t been so_ bloody _intent upon searching for a fucking nonexistent engagement ring._

_If only she’d managed to get her hand on that door handle two seconds earlier._

_If only, if only, if only..._   

It was madness, she knew, to keep torturing herself like this. It wouldn’t change things, no matter how desperately she wanted it to. Still, she couldn’t shut it off; couldn’t fight her mind’s desperate attempt to amend history, to unearth every stupid, careless mistake and mentally fix each one over and over again. 

Bleary eyes trained on the sidewalk, Claire was lost in her reverie, wandering without purpose, without any sense of time or distance. She passed block after block, intersection after intersection, drifting from residential neighborhoods to commercial to industrial and back again. Boston was a city that never slept; even in the rainy pre-dawn hours of early December, there were a few cars on the road, stray pedestrians huddled under umbrellas or the hoods of their coats, idling trucks making early morning deliveries, a few merchants just arriving to set up for the day. Crying and shaking, disheveled and soaked through, Claire garnered no more than a darting, awkward glance from any of them before they hurried on with their own tasks.

She’d never felt more alone.

The firm, ubiquitous nurse’s voice in the back of her mind reminded her that she couldn’t carry on like this much longer. Any heat kindled by the exertion of running was long spent; what had begun as light shivering and chattering teeth had advanced to full-blown muscle spasms. She couldn’t feel her fingers or toes any more. Her stride was becoming slower, more lethargic, as the blood left her periphery in favor of protecting her vital organs. 

_Hypothermia._

She was going to land herself in the ER if she didn’t pull herself together. 

A quick tap of a slightly blue-nailed finger to her Fitbit showed that it was 5:48 AM. She’d passed at least a dozen places that were open at this hour — Starbucks, diners, convenience stores, bagel shops. Plenty of options.

Claire kept walking past four more of them.

She couldn’t… she didn’t know how to be around people at the moment. Interact. Wipe her swollen eyes and fix her hair, order a cup of coffee, and sit down at a table and pretend to scroll through her Instagram feed.

She didn’t know how to do any of it any more. Live in the world. Pretend to be alright when she wasn’t...

She _wasn’t._

A fresh wave of tears rolled down her cheeks, mingling with the freezing rain. 

Three more intersections, and her calves started to seize up. 

With no choice left, Claire finally faltered, and stopped. 

Standing on the corner of a quiet residential street, she trembled so hard she could barely keep herself upright. She bowed her head, gasping, sobbing, clutching her arms around herself as though she could hold her bones, her muscles, her heart, her _sanity_ together if she just gripped tight enough.

For the rest of her life, she’d never be certain what drew her tear-blurred eyes up in that moment. She only knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that it was the reason she survived.   

Claire did not consider herself to be a particularly religious person. Her parents had been dutiful, if not devout, Catholics; they’d had her baptized, taken her to Mass and her First Communion. And then they’d died, and she had not. 

And that was that. 

The day of their funeral, almost twenty years ago, had been the last time she’d ever set foot inside a church.

So she couldn’t say with any great certainty why she found herself staggering on unsteady legs towards the open door of one now. 

Obviously, it was the closest building open to the public, and it was no small miracle that her half-frozen limbs would even carry her that far. It was also centrally heated; she had to bite her lip to suppress a moan of relief as she stepped under the blast of a heating vent just inside the narthex. It was a convenient place to get out of the rain, warm up — decidedly less populated than any coffee house at this hour. She could simply sit with a bowed head and closed eyes and no one would bother her.

But it was more than that, and she knew it.

There was an undeniable sense of… _peacefulness_ to an old, quiet, candlelit sanctuary. And in that moment, the promise of any sort of relief — any temporary respite from the maelstrom raging inside of her — beckoned to her like a port in a storm. 

Which was ridiculous. Fanciful. Sentimental in a way that Claire Beauchamp was not.

Yet here she was. Soaked to her skin, and still pausing at the entrance to dip her fingers in the holy water and cross herself ( _a habit so old and so deeply ingrained that it surprised even her_ ). 

As she’d hoped, the church was blessedly empty at this hour of the morning; had it not been a Sunday, she doubted it would have been open at all. The overhead lights were still turned off, but a tall, elaborately decorated Christmas tree stood in the half-circle of stained glass windows at the front of the sanctuary, casting the vaulted stone room in a soft golden glow. 

It was _beautiful_. 

Claire drew in a deep breath through her nose, held it for a moment, then released it in a slow, quavering stream as she sank into a pew. She clasped her hands on the bench in front of her, wringing the fingers from root to tip to try to coax some blood back into them. Bit by bit, she felt the numbness begin to give way to pinpricks of tingling pain, and finally a dull, throbbing warmth. After a while, her teeth began to chatter again, and the muscle spasms relented in favor of rapid shivering. 

“It’s alright,” she breathed out, allowing her burning eyes to slip shut. “It’s alright. You’re alright.”

In the quiet warmth of the sanctuary, she could almost convince herself it was true.

She still wasn’t certain if she wanted it to be.

Laying her forehead against the polished wood pew in front of her, she attempted to meditate, to focus on the slow bloom of warmth as it spread outwards from her core. She tried to visualize the arteries, tracing them methodically across the meridians of her body as though she were following an anatomy textbook. 

It helped.

Slowly, agonizingly, she started to feel better. Damp, stiff, shaky, and uncomfortable, but no longer _in danger_. 

It was some time before the realization dawned upon her that she was no longer alone in the little stone sanctuary. She wasn’t sure whether it was a sound, a movement, or simply the instinctual bristle of the hairs on the back of her neck that alerted her to the other presence, but suddenly she looked up, and saw him.

The priest was an elderly man, tall and bony and slightly stooped at the shoulders. Still, he moved with a quiet grace, the hem of his black robes rustling as he moved in front of the altar, lighting the large white candles on either side with broad, steady hands.

He’d said nothing to her, made no indication that he was aware of her presence at all. Perhaps it was naive to believe that she’d escaped notice altogether, but Claire knew she couldn’t stay any longer; watching him, she was gripped with the stomach-churning sensation of imposing on something sacred. Knuckling the residual tears from her cheeks, she rose and turned silently to leave. 

“I’m sorry,” the priest’s voice said softly, though his back remained turned to her. She halted in her tracks, looking up at him with wide eyes. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your prayers.”

A nervous smile flitted at the corners of Claire’s lips as he blew out his match. Wringing her chapped hands, she tried to decide how best to excuse herself without being blatantly rude. After a beat of silence, she opted for honesty. “I wasn’t exactly praying,” she admitted. “I was just sitting here alone, trying to clear my head.”

If the priest was at all fazed by her admission, it didn’t show in the lines of his posture, the fluid ease of his movement. “Were you indeed alone?” he asked as he slipped the matchbox into a drawer in the altar and closed it with the dull thump of felt against wood. 

It was a rhetorical question, coming from a priest. Still, a prickle of goosebumps streaked down Claire’s spine. She didn’t know how to answer him, so she simply stared mutely as he finally turned to meet her gaze. 

In the dim, flickering light, the features of his face were cast into sharp relief, the elongated shadows transforming him from elderly to _wizened_. His face was deeply lined, careworn; he had a nose that had obviously been broken, and deep set eyes of an indeterminate color. 

When he gestured for her to resume her seat with an unassuming “ _please,_ ” she felt she couldn’t refuse him. Lips pursed, she returned to the pew and sat down again, watching him nervously for what he would do next. 

He drew nearer to her in a roundabout, unhurried fashion, moving with the great care of one approaching a spooked animal. He stooped to pick up a hymnal that had fallen to the floor, straightened the worn red cushion on a pew a few rows up from her, stopped for a moment to admire the wreath hung over the door at the back of the sanctuary. 

Giving her a chance to balk, she realized. 

Or to ask for help.

Completely unsure herself which option she preferred, Claire did neither; simply continued to sit straight-backed and stone still, save for the fingers twisting together in her lap. 

At long last, satisfied that she had no imminent desire to leave, the priest approached her pew and slowly eased himself down to sit a few feet beside her. They sat together in silence for some time, Claire occasionally casting him a fleeting glance out of the corner of her eye. 

When he finally spoke again, his tone was gentle, paternal. “What is your name, my dear?”

She offered him a tremulous smile, and her hand. “Claire. Claire Beauchamp.”

His own hands were weathered and warm as they enveloped hers. “Father Gregory Anselm,” he reciprocated, giving her knuckles a tender pat. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“You as well,” she said politely. 

“Now, I admit,” he began, leaning back against the pew with a wry smile. “My hearing’s not what it used to be. But is that an English accent I detect?”

“It is indeed.” She put her hands between her knees and bumped them together - an old nervous habit. “I’m from Oxford, originally.”

“And how long have you been here in the States?”

“Almost four years now.”

They continued to exchange pleasantries, small talk; he asked about her work ( _and was only too thrilled to share stories about his own mother, who had been a nurse in the first World War_ ), her family, the weather, if she’d tried this-or-that restaurant or visited various historical sites and attractions. He was easy to talk to; he seemed genuinely interested in what she had to say, and was animated in his responses. With time, Claire found her posture relaxing against the bowed curve of the bench, her smile blooming authentically. 

As pleasant as the whole encounter had been thus far, she knew in the back of her head that the inevitable question was coming. Still, she winced when it did.

“So, if you don’t mind me asking, Claire, what is it that brings you here this morning?”

Unable to meet Father Anselm’s gaze, she pinched one of the drawstrings of her hoodie between her thumb and forefinger, twisting it back and forth pensively. “As I said, I was just... looking for a quiet place to think.”

He nodded his acceptance with a soft guttural sound. “Mm. Well I certainly understand that. I like to come in early most mornings myself. Try to find a few moments of peace before I start my day.”

“And do you?” she asked hoarsely, feeling a lump rise in her throat. “Find peace?”

“Not alone.”

The words ripped through her like a lance, stealing the breath from her lungs. 

She’d been alone for so long now, she wasn’t sure she remembered how not to be; how to let anyone in deep enough to matter. Life had taught her the hard way that it was safer like this, when she relied only on herself. 

But for six miserable weeks, she’d been trying to handle this mess alone.

It wasn’t going well for her.

A warm, calloused hand came to rest on hers, and Claire blinked hard against the sudden sting of tears. Fighting the instincts that twenty years of self-reliance had ingrained in her, she slowly and deliberately dragged broken, vulnerable eyes up to his.

“Would you like me to hear your confession?” he asked as soon as their gazes locked. It was a gentle question, phrased without judgment or expectation. 

Drawing in a deep breath, she admitted on a quavering exhale, “I’m not so sure I can bear to hear it myself.”

The priest nodded to himself, as though he’d been expecting as much. Leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, he clasped his hands in front of him, eyes trained thoughtfully on the lights of the Christmas tree. 

He seemed equally unsurprised when Claire began to speak again, her voice hoarse, strained, barely a whisper. 

“It’s just that I… I’ve discovered that something I thought had happened… what I—what I thought I was responsible for… never came to pass. And it should be a relief, but what _really_ happened is— it’s _worse_ this way, somehow, and I…” She wiped a hot, glistening tear from her cheek, sniffling. “I’m sorry. I know none of this is making any sense to you.” 

“Perhaps not,” the Father agreed with a small, tender smile. He inclined his head toward the crucifix at the front of the sanctuary. “But I assure you, He understands. Our Lord sees the truth in all things. And so He knows your truth as well. Whatever your sins might be, have faith that they will be forgiven.”

Claire nodded once, pressing her lips together to keep them from trembling. As she dropped her gaze to the hands folded tightly in her lap, a fresh trickle of tears escaped down her cheeks. 

She swallowed hard.

Took a deep, fortifying breath. 

And finally confessed aloud the truth that she’d been drowning in for the past six weeks. 

“I suppose the—the gist of it is…” Her voice broke, and she coughed and cleared her throat before continuing, “That through my… _selfishness_ , I’ve brought great suffering to an innocent man.”

Father Anselm reached out to lay a hand over hers for a moment before resuming his position of prayer. “Go on,” he encouraged softly, as her shoulders began to jerk with wracking sobs.

And so she told him everything. 


	9. One Door Closes

The transition to Ellison 7 had been a smooth one, all things considered. 

The surgical team that had been taking care of Jamie in the ICU continued to follow him on the new unit, rounding twice a day to check in with him, updating orders and medications, making sure he had everything he needed. The nurses and support staff were all friendly enough, though understandably wary at first, given the “problem patient” status he’d earned himself by bellowing at the skittish wee nurse ( _Mary, her name was Mary_ ) not five minutes after he’d arrived on the floor. 

Jamie made a concerted effort to be polite whenever the staff came in, but mostly he kept to himself those first few days, quietly grieving behind glazed eyes. Eventually, the nurses stopped looking at him as though he might snap every time they walked into the room; he could only assume that word must have spread around the nurses’ station that his bark was worse than his bite. He did what he could to preserve that shift in his reputation — smiled a bit, cracked a few self-deprecating jokes. He tried his best not to be a bother, not to ask for anything he didn’t strictly need.

Except Claire. He did ask about Claire. 

He made his inquiries every evening without fail, when the day nurse indicated that her shift would soon be over. The answers were always the same: Claire was off until Friday for sure, but no one knew if she’d actually be back for her scheduled shift, or why she’d taken off in the middle of the night ( _very_ unlike her, they all agreed). Jamie had to bite his lip to hold back the barrage of questions that threatened to burst from him in a less-than-patient tone: 

 _If it’s sae unlike her to bolt in the middle of a shift, shouldn’t ye be a trifle more concerned? Do none of ye speak to her outside of work? Are ye no’ her friends? Can ye no’_ text _her and ask if she’s alright, if she needs anything?_

The fact that _he_ seemed to care more about the Sassenach than any of her peers irked him something fierce. Could they not see that something was wrong? Even before she’d left in a hurry — without a word, without explanation — he could read it in her plain as day. She was _hurting_.

Knowing full well that he couldn’t do anything about the matter, he tried not to dwell on it. On her.

He failed miserably.

The nights were long, his sleep broken; he had too much time to think, worry, wonder. His days, on the other hand, were filled with a revolving door of professionals intent upon his rehabilitation. Physical therapy began his first morning on the new unit. The lasses who came to work with him were kind, but tenacious; they pressed him to his absolute limits — wide-eyed, dripping sweat, trembling with exertion — then encouraged him to push just a little bit further. They came three times a day, at 09:00, 13:00, and 17:00, and after the first couple of ( _exhausting, excruciating_ ) sessions, Jamie began eyeing the clock at quarter-to like a condemned man counting down to the hour of his execution. To their credit, though, after only a few days he could already tell the difference in his stamina, his strength; the ruthless wee whip-crackers had him sitting up at the edge of his bed by Friday afternoon — head spinning, muscles shaking, and back screaming, but he was _doing_ it.  

 _Claire willna believe her eyes when she sees this,_ he thought before he could stop himself, then forcibly amended, _IF she comes in tonight._

He was riding the high of his success, beaming breathlessly up at the physical therapists, when the nurse’s aide popped her head through the door.

“Hey, Mr. Fraser, are you—? Oh! PT’s still here.”

“We’re just finishing up,” said Lisa, the blonde one of the physical therapy duo. She gesticulated at him grandly, taking a step back to show off his latest accomplishment. “Did you happen to notice that he’s _sitting up all on his own?_ ” 

“Aww. Yay!” The aide clapped the tips of her fingers together, her youthful, freckled face splitting in a grin. “Good job, Mr. Fraser!”

Jamie rolled his eyes and choked out a shaky laugh. “Och, dinna play into their games, lass. They like to cheer for my every wee move like I’m a bairn.” 

“Baaaiiiiirrrnnnnn,” crooned Shariah, the other physical-therapist, a hand flapping over her heart. “Oh my God. This boy.”

“You know they’re just gonna keep doing it to get you to say that, right?” the aide informed him. “All the girls are gaga for your accent.”

Jamie laughed again, going pink. He was well aware; the more comfortable the predominantly-female staff became around him, the more they started to fawn and squeal and beg him to repeat certain words (and start in on the endless train of “how-do-you-say- _THIS_ -in-Scotland?”). It was all very flattering, if a bit much. He tried to play into it good-naturedly, lapsing into broad Scots and rolling his r’s for them, much to the lasses’ delight. 

“Dinna ken about that,” he murmured humbly. 

“James ‘as always been blissfully unaware of the effect he ‘as on women,” said a familiar, deeply accented French voice just beyond the door. The tiny hairs on Jamie’s arms and neck stood on end in the brief moment before its owner stepped into view.

“Annalise,” he managed through a suddenly-dry throat.

She was as stunning as ever; smoky-eyed and red-lipped, her long golden hair - fine as silk - twisted back in a delicate waterfall braid. Dressed to the nines, as always; today she wore a curve-hugging, cowl-necked red sweater dress paired with knee-high leather boots. She’d modeled to pay her way through drama school, and Jamie had never quite been able to believe his luck that a lass as bonny as her had taken any interest in a bumbling dolt of a Highlander like himself.

They’d been dating casually for eight months before he left for Boston to pursue an internship at one of the most highly-regarded nonprofits in his industry. At the time, the two of them had danced masterfully around definitive terms like _long-distance relationship_ , coming to a sort of unspoken agreement to let things develop (or fall apart) organically. She’d come out to visit him once over the summer; he’d taken her sightseeing around Boston, bought her the Prada purse she’d been ogling at Saks, and fucked her hungrily on his kitchen counter. She’d left on a flight back to Paris the next morning, and they’d barely spoken since. Jamie had received exactly two text messages from her after the accident: the first the very next day ( _your sister told me about the accident, how are you feeling?!!?!_ ), the second just over a week ago, with only a kiss-face emoji. 

And now she was here.

And he had no… earthly idea what to make of that.

His mouth hung open a bit, and he only realized it and shut it again when Shariah elbowed her coworker in the ribs with a grumbled “ _told you_ he’d have a bombshell girlfriend.”

He eyed Annalise in bald-faced confusion, just barely biting back the urge to clarify “ _… do I?”_ Pulling himself together, he smiled up at his possibly?-former?-current?-girlfriend and finally managed, “Canna believe you’re here.”

Annalise flashed him a megawatt smile. “Surprised?”

“Aye! Aye, I am. It’s, ah, it’s good to see you.” 

The three staff members kept glancing back and forth between the pair of them as though they were watching a tennis match. At last, Lisa was the one to come to her senses; she noted the way that Jamie’s muscles had begun to spasm from the effort of holding himself upright, and snapped back into professional mode.

“Okay, lover boy, let’s get you back into bed so we can leave you two to catch up without an audience, hm?”

“Aye.” He released his breath in a shaking exhale of relief. “Thank ye.” Leaning forward slightly, he lifted his arms to let one physical therapist brace him on each side.

“Oh, but—” Annalise began to interject, drawing his gaze up just in time to catch her perfect red-lipsticked pout. “I ‘ad ‘oped we might go down to the little cafe downstairs for a coffee?” 

“Not today, angel,” Shariah answered over her shoulder. “Mr. Hercules over here is kickin’ ass and taking names, but he ain’t ready for a wheelchair trip just yet.” She winked a long-lashed brown eye at him. “Maybe by the end of next week, huh, baby?”

“I think ye have a much higher opinion of my— _oof_ —” He hissed through his teeth as they helped to boost him up on the bed. “—of my abilities than I do.”

“You’ll get there,” she assured him with an encouraging smile. “You just keep up the good work, honey.”

“Seriously. You’re doing such a phenomenal job here, Jamie,” Lisa added as she helped to tuck his shoulder and turn him ergonomically into a side-lying position, facing the window. “Fantastic work today. You should be so proud of yourself.”

Teeth chattering a bit from the pain, he nevertheless managed a tight smile. “Couldna do it wi’out ye, my wee whip-crackers.”

“Oh my God, you’re killing me with that. I need to make that my next tattoo,” Lisa chortled, flexing her bicep and using an index finger to trace invisible ink along the inside of her arm. “ _Wee whip-cracker._ You watch, I’ll do it, too.” She patted Jamie soundly on the outside of his thigh, and he managed a strangled laugh.

“Aye, save it for when ye get me out of here, and I’ll get one to match.”

The lasses fussed over him for a few more minutes — made sure he was in a comfortable position ( _as comfortable as possible, given that he was still shaking, muscles clenched against the pain_ ), tucked the blankets in around him, handed him his call light and water, and reminded him to get some good rest, because they’d be back to torture him again in a few hours.

Although he couldn’t see her, he knew Annalise was still hovering in the doorway; he heard Shariah’s hiss of a whisper to her as she left the room ( _“Does he have a brother?”_ ). His girlfriend gave a nervous little laugh. 

When they were finally alone, a blanket of silence fell over the room. 

Thick, oppressive, and fraught with tension.

She’d seen, then.

The sheets were pulled up over Jamie’s shoulders now, but the back to his hospital gown was open, so when the physical therapists had turned him over, he was sure Annalise caught an eyeful of the shredded, mutilated horror that used to be his back.

After a few more breaths, a few more thudding, anxious heartbeats, he finally heard the tentative tap of her boots on the linoleum floor. He tried to brace himself for the expression on her face, but it didn’t particularly help.

She was not as good of an actress as she liked to think she was.

Her blood-red smile was etched firmly in place, and she had her arms draped casually over her chest as she leaned against the window frame, but Jamie didn’t miss the tension she held in the tendons of her neck, the way she dug her nails into the thick cable knit of her sleeves. They were both carrying on a poor excuse for a charade, all tight smiles and awkward glances. 

“So.” He huffed out a brief laugh, fidgeting nervously with the edge of his blanket. “How long have ye been planning this wee surprise?”

Annalise’s phone chimed with a text notification, and she pulled her mobile from her purse and began scrolling absently with a finger as she answered him. “Well, it all worked out very nicely, actually! I just so ‘appened to ‘ave a flight booked to New York to visit a friend this weekend; it was something we ‘ad been planning for months. With a bit of research, I learned that it is only a four hour train ride to Boston. Of course, I told her at once that I _must_ come up and spend the day with you!” She flipped her phone to face him, rolling her eyes with a scoffing laugh. “This is her now. We ‘ad tickets to see _Wicked_ tonight, but of course I told her that coming to visit you was _much_ more important than—”   

“Annalise.” 

She glanced up from her phone screen, her smile evaporating at his tone. Jamie stared at her openly now – stripped of pretense, forced charm, and social niceties. 

Christ, he was tired. So very, very tired. 

“Ye dinna have to do this, you know.” He stared at her for a moment, watching the weight of his words settle over her, then nodded in affirmation, smiling sadly. “It’s alright. I ken this isn’t… it’s no’ what ye signed up for.”

“James…” she whispered, and at least had the good grace to tear up a bit. She was a kind lass at heart, but he knew that this sort of trauma — this darkness — was more than the fragile bonds of a lighthearted, casual romance were meant to bear. He didn’t resent her for it; he could barely stand it himself. But it wasn’t as though he had much choice in the matter.

She did. 

He reached for her hand, and unshed tears quivered like diamonds in her eyes as Annalise took the few steps forward to take it. Gently, he brought her knuckles to his lips. 

“It was kind of ye to make the trip, _ma belle_. It’s good to see ye, and I mean that. But I don’t expect…” He swallowed, trying to find the right words as his thumb brushed gently over the back of her smooth, small hand. “I don’t want ye to feel as though there’s any… obligation, here.” 

It was an open door, one way or another. She could walk away, or she could fight with him, fight _for_ him; tell him he was worth the effort, the distance traveled, the heartache and the worry and the pain…  

One glance up at her, and he knew which it would be. The social graces drilled into her demanded that she object, but beneath it, there was a palpable surge of _relief_ at the offer to cut and run.

So he decided to make it easy for her. 

Before she could open her mouth to answer, Jamie reached over to the bedside stand and tipped his phone up to check the time. “It’s two o’clock now,” he told her matter-of-factly. “If ye catch an Uber back to the train station, ye can still make it back to New York in time for yer show.” He smiled encouragingly, giving her hand a squeeze. “I ken ye’ve been wantin’ tae see it for a long time now. Ye used to sing the songs in the shower.”

“Still do,” she confessed with a soft, tearful breath of a laugh.

“Well, I’d hate for ye to miss it on my account. Especially since I’ll likely spend half the afternoon sleepin’ anyway. I’m, ah, I’m always knackered after the physical therapy, ye ken? So I’ll no’ be great company to ye. I’d feel better if ye went back to be with yer friend and enjoyed yer wee holiday. Truly.”

She stared into his eyes for a long moment, as if trying to gauge his sincerity; Jamie could almost see the internal conflict raging behind her own misty blue eyes. At long last, she leaned down to press her lips to his, gently and chastely. A single tear escaped down her cheek as she pulled back slowly and whispered, “ _Je ne te mérite pas._ ” [ _I don’t deserve you.]_

He tried to smile, and was almost successful. Running the pad of his thumb over her cheek to brush away a tear, he answered softly, “No. You deserve much better, Annalise.” Tucking his arms back under the blankets, he laid his head back on the pillow, silently granting permission for her to go. “I hope ye find it.”

“You too, James,” she choked. “You too.” 

And with one final, lingering, mournful glance, she turned and left him.

Jamie stared numbly out the window for over an hour, idly wondering which of the cars that pulled out of the circular drive was hers. 

He must have drifted off eventually, because he woke up to the rap of knuckles on his door just as the sun was starting its descent in a bright fuschia and marigold sky. 

Lisa and Shariah, back for his final session of the day. 

They took one look at him, and didn’t ask any questions. 

Shariah employed even more pet names than usual, and Lisa was gentler with him than she’d ever been; she suggested that maybe they should just do some stretches and light bed exercises this time.

Jamie quietly agreed, and did as he was told.

He ignored his supper tray that evening, despite his stomach’s growling protests. Fists clenched under his chin, he curled up on his side and watched the sun set behind Boston’s skyline, trying very hard not to cry. 

It wasn’t even Annalise. Not _only_ her, anyway. She was just the most recent casualty of this godforsaken accident; one more hole ripped from the life he’d built for himself, the life he loved. Even during the darkest, most horrific days in the ICU, Jamie had done his best not to spiral into the depths of self-pity; it wouldn’t do him any good to start taking stock of all the damage he’d suffered, all that he was missing out on, all the things he’d never have again.

But _Christ_... lying there alone in the dark, he had to wonder: how much loss was one man supposed to endure before it just became _too much?_

He heard the click of the door sometime later; either the nurse or the aide coming to check on him, he imagined. He pretended to be asleep, and waited for them to leave. 

They didn’t. 

Cracking one eye open, he looked over at the window, at his own reflection in the dark glass, then up at the silhouette of the person standing in his doorway.

The breath caught in his chest. 

Ignoring the searing pain in his back, he twisted to look over his shoulder, needing to be sure the reflection wasn’t playing tricks on him.

Soft, shimmering amber eyes locked with his, and it was as if he’d stepped outside on a cloudy day, and suddenly the sun came out. 

Jamie’s breath shuddered out of him with a trembling smile, his eyes flooding with the tears he’d been holding back all afternoon. 

“ _Claire._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fear not; next chapter will start up with Claire, and we'll get the rest of her story from the days leading up to her decision to go back (plus the reunion with Jamie, aaah!).


	10. Mascara

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _A/N: Deep breaths, everyone. Here we go..._

Claire studied her reflection in the bathroom mirror for several minutes. Smoothed the front of her scrubs. Lifted her chin, straightened her spine. Tucked the well-moussed brown curls behind her ears, pulled a few strands forward experimentally, pushed them back again. 

Scowling at the splotchy, raccoon-eyed wraith staring back at her, she unzipped the makeup bag sitting on her counter for the first time in days. Nothing Miss Maybelline couldn’t fix; two generous smears of concealer to the dark circles beneath her eyes, blush to disguise the death-warmed-up pallor, rose-colored lipstick dabbed over pinched, bloodless lips.

And a few swipes of mascara, in a moment of immense _(over?)_ confidence.

Because she was well and truly done crying. _For fuck’s sake, Beauchamp._

Whatever preternatural force had guided her to Father Anselm _(be it God, fate, or sheer dumb luck)_ , Claire had found in the kindly priest not only the catharsis of confession — an unbiased ear to which she could spill her darkest, most painful secret — but also a fair amount of sound advice on how to handle the situation going forward. The Father firmly maintained that the only way she would ever cast aside the yoke of her guilt was to confess her role in the accident to Jamie, then try to find some way to make amends for her part in his suffering. 

_Confession and atonement_. 

Perhaps not a shocking suggestion, coming from a Catholic priest, but they were words she needed to hear, nonetheless. Claire needed a _plan_. Something solid. Something she could _do_ … because the helplessness of the situation — the inertia of it all — was eating her alive. 

Father Anselm had provided her with that plan.

Now it was up to her to execute it. 

She’d been practicing her script for five days now. Paced what would probably be permanent treads in the floorboards of her bedroom as she spoke the words over and over again, performing a variety of different approaches, inflections, phrasing. She tried to imagine how Jamie would react, played out every possible scenario she could come up with — from stone-cold silence to explosive rage. She wanted to be prepared for every eventuality.  

Because she was going to do this. 

She was going to tell him. 

Tonight.

And she _wasn’t going to cry while she did it,_ she reminded herself firmly as she screwed the wand back on her mascara. She was going to face this with grace and maturity, like a goddamned adult. 

She pointedly ignored the fact that her hands were shaking so badly she could barely turn the key in the lock on the way out.

The wind whipped at her hunched form the moment she stepped through the rotating glass door of her apartment building and out onto the street. The weather remained unseasonably warm for December — slightly above freezing and not a snowflake in sight — but the wind was brutal as it screamed through the natural tunnel between skyscrapers. When she first moved to Boston, Claire had purposefully chosen an apartment complex within easy walking distance of the hospital; two blocks, manageable on foot even in the most horrid of weather conditions. Still, she couldn’t help but curse as she ducked her head and half-jogged across the intersection, knowing that all the effort she’d spent styling her unruly head of curls would be undone completely in the five minutes it took her to get to work.

A nice, safe distraction to focus on as the knot in her stomach pulled tighter and tighter with each step.     

By the time she reached the elevators in the Ellison building, her forehead had broken out in a sheen of sweat, despite the brisk trek through the cold. As each floor number lit over the elevator door, she chewed her bottom lip absently, forgetting the lipstick; she cursed under her breath the moment she recognized what she was doing.  

_So much for putting up a cool, composed front._ Hair a windblown mess, lipstick smudged (and probably some on her teeth, _Christ,_ she’d have to check), concealer half-sweated off.  

_Off to a great start here, Beauchamp._

Not that Jamie would give a lick what she looked like once she told him that she…

The elevator doors opened on the seventh floor, and for a single suspended moment, Claire froze like a deer in the headlights. Panic flooded her nervous system, rendering her completely paralyzed — chest heaving, heart pounding against her ribcage. 

_I can’t do this. I can’t do this. Jesus H. Christ, I don’t think I can do this..._  

And then Joe Abernathy stepped out of the locker room, ten feet ahead, and caught a glimpse of her out of the corner of his eye. His whole face lit up in a grin, and he hailed her with a broad wave. 

“Hey, Lady Jane! You’re back!”

And just like that, Claire blinked away her stupor, jutting an arm out to block the elevator doors right as they began to close. Somehow, the sight of a coworker and friend was exactly what she needed to clear the haze of panic. _This_ she could do. This is what she’d _been_ doing — every day she worked, for six long weeks — right up until the moment she cracked. Here, with these people, in this place, she had perfected the pretense of normalcy; erected an impeccable facade to hide the ruins underneath. It was an ingrained habit by now to plaster a smile on her face as she stepped out of the elevator to greet her friend. 

“Miss me, Joe?”

“You bet.” He opened a long arm for a hug, and she slid in comfortably alongside him as they walked toward the nurses’ station. “How you been, lady? Heard you had something come up Sunday night and had to bolt on outta here. Everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine. Just something personal came up, that’s all.” At his suspicious side glance, she redoubled her efforts at a believable smile. “I’m good, Joe, really.”

“Mmhmm,” he intoned, completely unconvinced. He gave her shoulder a squeeze before releasing her. “Well, in any case, I’m glad you’re back. This place goes straight to hell in a handbasket when you’re not around. I thought our guy in 43 was gonna have an aneurysm if you didn’t show up tonight.” 

Any blood that had gathered in Claire’s cheeks immediately drained away. Through a sandpaper throat, she clarified haltingly, “Fo… forty-three?”

“ _Oh_ yeah.” He raised his eyebrows at her with a smirk as he grabbed a fresh report sheet from a stack on the desk. “That boy’s got it _bad_.”

Claire could only blink at him, at an absolute loss. 

“Well don’t look so surprised, Lady Jane! You’re a beautiful woman. And it’s not like he’s the first patient to crush on you. You remember that one guy down in 52, who—?”

“Yeah, no, I _remember_ , it—ah, it—” Claire felt as though her brain were short-circuiting, the ability to form words completely eluding her. “It—but—why would you say that Jamie—?”

“Oh, _Jamie_ , is it?” Joe teased, wiggling his eyebrows at her. 

“ _Mr. Fraser_ —” she corrected, the color rushing back to her cheeks in a flood.

“I’m just givin’ you a hard time, Lady Jane.” Joe grinned, clapping her on the shoulder. He held up a blank report sheet for her. “Here, you need one of these?” 

“Yeah, thanks.” She took the paper absently, following him in a daze over to the assignment board. Brow furrowed, she opened and closed her mouth twice before she asked haltingly, “But really, Joe, what on earth would make you say that about Mr. Fraser?” 

Joe maintained an obnoxiously cavalier smirk as he copied his patient assignment down on his report sheet. “Oh, I dunno. Maybe the fact that he’s asked about you _every single day_ you’ve been gone?” He dropped his voice into a terrible, growling impersonation of a Scottish burr. “‘Where’s _Claire?_ When’s _Claire_ coming back? Does anyone know what happened to _Claire?’_ ”

She smacked his arm with her paper. “Stop it. He did not.”

_“Okay.”_

“Or at the very least, it’s an exaggeration.”

_“Okay.”_

She smacked him again, harder this time, but decided to let the issue drop. Even if he weren’t grossly exaggerating just to get a rise out of her _(which she highly doubted),_ it hardly mattered at this point. Any fleeting interest Jamie might have taken in her was about to be permanently and spectacularly shattered. 

Because sure enough, in solid black marker next to her name on the assignment board was _J. Fraser, Rm 43._

With a small note in parentheses beside it that read _(patient request)._

Claire closed her eyes, feeling something vital crack in her chest. 

 

* * *

 

 

She saw all of her other patients first.

Sought out report from every day shift nurse but Jamie’s, even though it meant skipping his room, going out of order, tracking down someone on the complete opposite side of the unit.

Anything to delay the inevitable.

What little confidence she’d possessed earlier in the day was draining out of her in an escalating drip the closer she got to actually having to face him. It had all been well and good in theory — coming back to work, seeing him again, taking him as a patient. And she knew, she _knew_ in her bones it was the right thing to do, being here. 

But as it turned out, the “right thing” was fucking hard to do.

Katie S. had been his nurse on day shift _(it seemed all the nurses on the unit had some variation of the same bloody name: Katie/Kate/Katherine/Kathy)_ , and she looked utterly relieved to see Claire when she finally, reluctantly, dragged herself over to the charting station outside room 43.

“Hey, there you are! If it isn’t Queen C herself!” the other nurse joked. Claire couldn’t quite find it in her to smile, and her coworker looked a bit abashed as she cleared her throat and explained, “Jamie’s been asking about you all week. He’s gonna be really happy you’re here.”

“So I heard,” Claire said softly, eyes on her report sheet. “How’s he doing?”

Katie updated her on all the technicalities: changes in his orders and medications, recent vital signs, his new IV site, upcoming procedures and dressing changes. Apparently he’d started physical therapy this week, and was doing brilliantly with it. 

“Lisa and Shariah even got him up sitting at the edge of the bed today!”

“That’s wonderful.”

Katie looked over her shoulder to double check that Jamie’s door was closed, then leaned in, voice lowered confidentially. “I’m not sure what all happened today, but the PTs said something about a girlfriend coming to visit? She left pretty quickly and he’s been super bummed out all afternoon, so I don’t know if they, like, broke up or whatever? But just FYI, _that_ went down today. So like I said, it’s good you’re here, Claire. He really likes you. Maybe you’ll boost his spirits, y’know? He needs it, poor guy.” She pouted sympathetically as she folded up her report sheet and tucked it away in her pocket. “You want me to go in with you to check his lines and everything?”

Claire quickly shook her head. “No, it’s alright, you can go. Sorry I kept you waiting.” 

The other nurse smiled and made a dismissive hand gesture. “‘Oh, no, it’s all good! Have a great night, Claire. I really hope you can cheer him up. He’s such a _sweetheart._ ” 

Claire’s lips twitched in a vague estimation of a smile as she nodded her agreement. 

She waited until the other nurse was well out of sight before covering her face with her hands, releasing her breath in a shuddering gust.

_Christ._

She scrubbed her palms over her eyes, belatedly remembered her makeup, then huffed out an exasperated sigh as she wiped at the mascara smears.

Nothing, not a single thing, was going according to plan. 

Of all the scenarios she’d rehearsed over the past five days, she’d never accounted for any of this. For him breaking up with his girlfriend — _God, yet another loss she could count herself responsible for_ — on the day she was meant to tell him what she’d done. 

Or for Jamie being… _attached_ to her in any way.

Or for the way it made her stomach flutter to know that he’d asked about her. That he missed her when she was gone.

She cut the thought off sharply, feeling the crack in her chest split a little bit further. It didn’t matter what he thought before, what… _bond_ or understanding or camaraderie there was between them. Once Jamie learned the truth, everything would change. She had to remind herself of that. Brace herself for it.

It had to be now. Right now, before she lost her nerve. Because Christ, she could feel it slipping every second.  

She drew in a deep breath through her nose. Held it. 

Counted to five.

And, exhaling, opened his door.

It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. Jamie was laying on his side, facing away from her, breathing steadily. Still, there was a slight tension to his posture — a stiffening of muscles that were normally relaxed in sleep — that let her know he was awake. 

She tried to find her voice, to say… something. Anything. 

_Hello._  

_Good evening, Mr. Fraser._

_Good evening, Jamie._

_Jamie, I know you’re not asleep._

_Jamie, it’s Claire. I’ll be your nurse again tonight. How are you feeling? Wait, before you answer that, let me tell you straight away that I am at fault for all of your pain and suffering these past six weeks. I caused the accident that ruined your life. You see, I couldn’t bloody well wait five minutes to see whether or not my ex-boyfriend would propose to me on my birthday..._

But she said none of those things. 

Because before she could, he stirred. Wrenching up in bed, Jamie turned over his shoulder to face her, as if he’d suddenly realized she was standing there.

And God… God in heaven, he looked at her with such _relief_ , smiling up at her as if she’d hung the stars.

_“Claire.”_ A single crystalline tear spilled down his cheek.

She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t do anything but stare back at him, feeling the crack in her chest open into a chasm. 

She’d promised herself she wouldn’t cry. But one look at him, and she felt the desperate burn in her traitorous throat, her eyes filling immediately to match his. 

“Hi,” she whispered, so faintly she wasn’t sure he could hear. 

His lips trembled in their smile, then twitched higher. “Hi,” he whispered back. 

She blinked hard, drew a knuckle under her running nose, released a self-conscious breath of a laugh. “I’m sorry I left the other night, without—”

He was already shaking his head. “Ye dinna owe me any explanations, Claire.”

_Oh, but I do,_ she thought miserably. 

God, her heart hurt.

Jamie looked at her as if he could see it. 

Maybe he did. 

His brow furrowed, the smile disappearing. “Are ye alright?” he asked, blue eyes watching her carefully.

She opened her mouth to give the reflexive answer: _I’m fine, you?_ Lie, then deflect; a social grace deeply ingrained in her, and very useful in avoiding self-reflection. 

But somehow, looking at Jamie, the lie wouldn’t come. 

Very... very slowly, she shook her head no.

There was no surprise in his face, only sadness. Arms crossed around her middle, Claire asked him shakily, “You?”

Jamie slowly shook his own head, tear-filled eyes trained on hers.

_You have to tell him_ , her conscience begged her, even as she felt her heart cleaving in two. _Tell him now. Tell him it’s all your fault. If you don’t tell him, you…_

She took a shallow breath, closed her eyes, and opened her mouth to speak. “Jamie, I—”

Just then, the quick patter of trainers on linoleum approached in the hall behind her, skidding to a halt with a squeaking sound just outside the door. 

“Oh! Claire, you’re in here,” said Elias, the night tech on duty. “I was gonna grab Mr. Fraser’s 8 o’clock vitals, but do you wanna—?”

“I’ll get them,” she said without turning, managing to keep her voice impressively steady. “If you can grab 48’s, that’d be great, Elias.”

“Sure thing,” he agreed, and then he was off again.

And the moment was gone.


	11. Consecration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _A/N: Two chapters in three days, what madness is this?!_ 😂 _Needed to get this chapter written and posted so that my "One Quote" challenge — which will post on Sunday — isn't too spoilery! So please enjoy this very rare (and never-to-be-repeated-again) rapidfire sequence of posting, and look for ch 12 to post on Sunday!_

He couldn’t take his eyes off of her. 

He’d been right. His every instinct had been right. 

Something terrible had happened to Claire.

The visceral response to her pain boiled up in Jamie like a hot spring: the desperate, anguished yearning to fix it, to _help_ her; fury at her coworkers for not checking in on her sooner; relief — utter, bone-weakening _relief_ that she was back. That she was _here._

It was insane, Jamie recognized, to feel so strongly about a woman he’d known all of four hours. To care this much, this quickly. 

It wasn’t usual. 

But it was there. Whatever _this_ was between them, it hadn’t disappeared in her absence. 

Just to be sure, he’d tested the waters. He held her eyes as he asked her if she was alright, and he’d seen it: the instinct to lie, to balk. But after a moment, she’d shaken her head — given him the true answer, even though she hated it; even though it fucking terrified her. 

There were secrets, _painful_ secrets lurking behind Claire’s eyes, and Jamie swore to himself then and there never to ask them of her; it wasn’t his place. But the confirmation that he wasn’t imagining it — that the vulnerable, naked honesty that existed between them on the very first night was _still there_ — caused the tension in his chest to release like a cord had been cut. 

For the first time in five days, he felt as though he could breathe again.

Of course, he knew Claire couldn’t just tarry about in his room all night; she had other patients to tend to, and the sudden appearance of the tech was an acute reminder of that. Once the lad scurried off down the hall, the two of them glanced at one another with soft, embarrassed breaths of laughter, the moment of raw vulnerability shattered by the intrusion. Claire gestured awkwardly at the vitals machine, and Jamie laid back down on his side as she crossed the room to fetch it. 

But the moment the stretched skin of his back relaxed again, the searing pain from his half-twisted position hit him in force. He saw stars for a moment, hissing sharply through his teeth. 

 _“Cack!—gah—schzzz_ — _fuckfuckfuck_ — _”_

Claire rounded quickly into view again on the window-side of the bed, thermometer and blood pressure cuff in hand. 

“Jamie, talk to me,” she commanded in a firm, steady tone. The fragile wisp of a lass that had stood in the doorway only seconds before was gone, replaced with a steely-eyed, no-nonsense nurse. “Can you rate your pain for me on a scale of 0 to 10?” 

As if sensing his instinct to downplay his response for her benefit, she rebuked him before he could even open his mouth, “And don’t you _dare_ tell me ‘four.’ I saw in your chart that’s been your number of choice today.”

Despite the pain, Jamie’s mouth tweaked into a wry, tremulous smile. “None of the other nurses ever question it, ye ken,” he teased. “Is a pain score no’ meant to be _subjective_ _?”_

She leveled him with a look.

Apparently, honesty would have to be a two-way street.

Drawing in a few lungfuls of air to steady himself, he considered for a moment, then answered gruffly, “Eight-and-a-half, mebbe nine?”

 _“Jamie,”_ she breathed, fingertips reaching for his, then recoiling at the last second. 

He shrugged his good shoulder, eyeing her with a sad sort of resignation. Whether or not Claire knew it, this had been his life for weeks; no need for her to start fretting about it now. “It’s nothin’ new, Sassenach.”

After a beat, her amber eyes darted up to his, narrowing in confusion. “Sass-a- _what?”_

Jamie’s cheeks pinked; he hadn’t even realized he’d said it out loud. He dropped his lashes, fiddling with the edge of his blanket. “Och… em, _Sassenach._ It’s what we call the English up in the Highlands. My, ah, my Grandda used to call ye the _feckin’ sassenachs_ , actually, but—” He chuckled, glancing up at her again. “I figured ye wouldna much appreciate me includin’ the first bit.” 

He was admittedly terrible at winking _(could never quite manage to get only one eye to close at a time),_ but he thought Claire probably caught the gist as he attempted it. The creases around her eyes deepened, and she huffed out a breath through her nose.

“I _see.”_  

“I dinna mean anything by it,” Jamie backpedaled hastily, suddenly afraid he’d offended her. “It’s only a wee nickname.”

Her eyes met his, soft and reassuring. “I didn’t take any offense.” Moving her stethoscope across his torso, she listened intently for a few seconds in each spot. As she removed the earpieces and wound the cord around her neck again, she added quietly, “But for what it’s worth, this ‘ _feckin’ sassenach’_ would feel much better if you’d let her give you something for the pain.”   

Jamie made a Scottish grunt of malcontent, eyes pinching shut. “I’ve told ye. The morphine gives me the boak.”

She wouldn’t be deterred so easily. “Something besides morphine, then. There are other options. If nothing suitable is in your orders, I can page the doctor to ask for something else. But I can’t just let you suffer like this, Jamie, I...” Her voice wavered slightly over the last few words, causing his eyes to snap open and find hers again. A soft sheen of tears hovered just above her lash line, and the sight made his heart clench. “Please. Let me help you.”

He couldn’t have refused her even if he wanted to. 

Just barely restraining the urge to reach up and brush his fingers over the apple of her cheek, he nodded his assent.

“Aye,” he whispered. “Aye, whatever ye think best. I trust you, Claire.” 

 

* * *

 

 

Claire tried — truly, she did — not to be a terrible nurse to her other patients. If anything, she was _overly_ attentive in the time she did spend with each of them; she offered to fetch warm blankets, fresh ice water, extra pillows, find them the white noise channel on the television, check which as-needed-meds were available and offer them preemptively. 

 _Do you need your Ativan tonight, Mrs. Jones? How about a sleeping pill, Mr. Parrikh? Any pain? Nausea? Restless leg? Would you like your door open or closed? Bathroom light on or off? Do you have your call light where you can reach it? Is there_ anything at all _I can get for you to make you more comfortable?_  

The patients were utterly smitten, finding her delightful, efficient, and thorough. And she _was_ — for the express purpose of addressing any foreseeable needs that might arise in the next hour or so, leaving her free to focus her undivided attention on Jamie. 

In the end, the strategy panned out quite nicely. Her four other patients were tucked in, well-medicated, and out cold by the time the doctor had placed the order for Jamie’s oxycodone, the pharmacist had verified it, and Claire had pulled it out of the Omnicell dispenser and rounded back to room 43. 

When she stepped through the open door, her heart stopped cold for half a beat.

In the time she’d been gone, Jamie’s condition had escalated from bad to worse. He was bent in half, practically convulsing, his knuckles white on the bedsheets. In her haste to get the pain medicine scanned and pop the pills into the little plastic cup, she fumbled and nearly dropped them on the floor. Claire had to force herself to stop, take a breath, and attempt to regain some professional composure before stepping over to the bedside. She decided to forego trying to make Jamie take the pill cup himself, and instead held the little white tablets up to his mouth one at a time, placing them carefully on his tongue when he opened for her, then following with a sip of water. Even still, Jamie grunted at the simple movement of tilting his head back to swallow, then grimaced as each of the tablets went down. 

Without pausing to think, she instinctively perched on the bed beside him.

“Shhh,” she soothed, stroking the backs of her fingers over his stubbled cheek. “Fifteen minutes, Jamie. Shhh. Give it fifteen minutes, and you’ll start to feel better.” Her chin was set in determination. “And if you don’t, I’ll page again. We’ll get you something else, I promise.”

Teeth gritted, he ground out, “I’ll bide. Dinna fash. It’s just the — _rmmph_ — the spasms, ye ken? They’ll pass.”

“Spasms…” Claire’s eyes lifted suddenly, a thought occurring to her. “Are you on any muscle relaxers?”

“Not that—” A shaking hiss. “Not that I — know of. Why?”

She stood abruptly then, and Jamie whimpered at the loss of contact. His hand grasped reflexively for hers as she began to walk away. 

“Stay wi’ me?” he panted, blue eyes pleading. “Just ‘til they — pass, I mean.”

Claire’s brows twitched up in compassion as she gave his hand a squeeze. “I’m not going anywhere,” she promised. “I’m just grabbing the computer so I can page the doctor again. If spasms are the problem, something like _Flexeril_ might be more helpful to you than the pain meds.” 

“Ah,” he clenched out. “I didna — ken that was a — thing.” He raised an eyebrow at her as she pulled the rolling computer over and sat back down on the bed beside him. “Why didna — someone — think of that — before?”  

Claire shot him a look. “Well, it would help if you started being _honest_ with your pain assessments. If the doctors and nurses think your pain is being managed with what’s ordered, they wouldn’t have any cause to look for alternatives, now, would they?”

“Suppose that — makes sense.” With what looked like considerable effort, he managed to broaden his grimace into a toothy grin. “Good thing ye’re — here to — _mmrph_ — set me straight, Sassenach.”

She made a throaty hum of assent, clacking away at her keyboard. By a stroke of luck, the plastic surgery resident on call tonight was an acquaintance of hers. He’d been on the general surgery rotation a few months ago, and she’d interacted with him almost nightly during that time. He knew her, trusted her judgment, and would listen to her requests. It would save her the headache of having to barge up the chain of command to reach the attending in the middle of the bloody night. 

_Hey Raj. Re: James Fraser, need flexeril too. TID please, and STAT. Highest dose you can reasonably order (10 mg?) 9/10 pain from spasms. Thx, Claire RN pgr#35461_

She sent the page off with a firm tap, then reached over to take Jamie’s hand again, enfolding it between her own. 

He clung to her like a lifeline. 

“There,” she murmured, massaging her thumbs in small circles over his knuckles. “Won’t be but a moment, and we’ll get you something that’ll _really_ help.”

“I thank ye. Truly.” Already, it seemed the pain meds were starting to take effect. He was still shaking, but the tightness around his eyes and mouth had eased slightly, and his teeth were no longer chattering. He looked up into her face so tenderly that she wanted to weep, trying to hold a smile for her sake. “I’m glad ye’re here, Claire.”

She shut her eyes briefly, swallowing against the burning lump in her throat. When she reopened them again to meet the impossible blue of his eyes, she whispered, “So am I, Jamie.”

And she meant it. 

The longer she let the thought dwell — sink into the very marrow of her bones — the more she realized the fundamental truth of it.

 _Jesus H. Christ_ , this was all she wanted. To make things better for him in any way she could. 

And with that thought came a revelation, bleeding slowly but surely over the horizon of her consciousness like the first orange rays of dawn.

Maybe this… this was how she could atone; how she could begin to make things better. 

 _This._ Exactly this.

Help him. Heal him. 

Advocate for him. 

 _Fight_ for him. 

Find all of the cracks where the system had failed him, and fix them. Use her knowledge, her experience, her ties to other medical professionals to pave the way for a swift and seamless recovery. 

Dedicate herself, and every resource within her grasp, to the rehabilitation of Jamie Fraser.   

She’d already been picking up insane amounts of overtime over the past six weeks; no one on the unit would bat an eye if she picked up a few more shifts. She could be here every single day if need be, taking care of him, watching over him; making sure he got the appropriate medications, that he was eating enough, getting enough sleep, following through on his physical therapy exercises. 

Jamie had asked for her every night she was gone. He _wanted_ her here. _He trusted her,_ he’d said it himself. He wanted to please her; it was plain as day in the way he looked at her. She’d been able to get him to take pain medicine when no one else could. Maybe she could motivate him in other ways — keep him on track. Expedite his recovery process. Get him home sooner.

Because that’s what he _really_ needed: to be out of this damned hospital, and back to his own life. 

Back where he was before she ruined everything. 

And Claire could get him there. She _knew_ she could.

There was a light at the end of the tunnel, now, and a clear path to get there. Her plan — Father Anselm’s plan — had been right all along; it just needed some tweaking. 

 _Atonement,_ then _confession_.

She’d tell him, of course. Eventually, she’d tell him everything — knowing full well that once she did, he’d hate her forever. So let her do something to help him _now_ , while he could still stomach the sight of her; while there was still an opportunity to improve his life in a meaningful way. Ultimately, it was better for Jamie like this, and that was all that mattered. She could do this — she _would_ do this — for his sake.

Even if it broke her heart.


	12. Helpless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _A/N: I am so thrilled to be participating in the One Quote Oneshot challenge over on tumblr, hosted by @balfeheughlywed and @notevenjokingfic. These two lovely ladies have provided a quote from the first Outlander book, which I was to then incorporate into my own modern day AU fic universe. The quote they chose for me worked SO beautifully with where I was headed for this chapter of Atonement that I asked if I might just weave it into the fabric of the story itself (rather than plucking it out for a oneshot), and they were gracious enough to let me just slip it in organically here. I'll post the quote in the note at the end; it's not one I recognized offhand out of context, so I'm interested to see if you book readers can pinpoint it!_

With the return of the Sassenach to his life, two things had become immediately and abundantly clear to Jamie Fraser.

 _One,_ she was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

 _Two,_ so long as he remained under her charge, he’d never have another moment’s peace again. 

And here he’d thought the physical therapists were the wee whip-crackers.

It didn’t take him long at all to learn exactly why Claire’s peers had taken to calling her the Velvet Hammer _(though he was still partial to_ Sassenach _, himself; like it or no’, she was stuck with it now)._ While Jamie had experienced firsthand the gentle, tender side of her — the soothing caresses and honeyed murmurs of reassurance — he found out soon enough that there was a ferocious, blunt-force power within the lass that only served to amplify his awe of her.

Christ, but she was glorious when she was roused. 

She had a wicked wee tongue that she was more than happy to unleash on anyone she deemed guilty of the mortal sin of incompetence— up to and including Jamie. She was unapologetically candid in her critiques, and doled out commands _(no’_ requests, _mind)_ regardless of whether or not anyone had actually asked for her input. She went toe-to-toe with attendings, grilled pharmacists over the phone, made more than one new resident cry. She was fearless and brazen and clever and strong, and she knew _exactly_ what she was doing. 

And best of all, she was on Jamie’s side. 

In his wildest dreams he couldn’t have conjured up a better champion. 

Claire had torn into his life like a hurricane, and heaven help the poor fool who tried to stand in her way.

Unfortunately, tonight that poor fool’s name was Jamie Fraser. 

 _“No!”_ she barked, pointing a slender white finger at his chest. “Absolutely not!”

“Why? I did it with Lisa and Shariah earlier today wi’ _nae problem!”_  

“Yes, with _two_ physical therapists _and_ an aide, a walker, a gait belt—”

Jamie rolled his eyes. “Och, it was overkill, Sassenach, I dinna need all that.”

“Well, the medical professionals who have been _specifically trained_ on the subject beg to differ.”

“Meaning you.”

 _“Meaning_ the physical therapists, who have written out a detailed plan with very specific instruc— _Jamie!”_ she shrieked as he launched himself to his feet. He wavered for a moment on wobbly legs, holding her shoulders for balance, while her own hands latched onto his upper arms with a death grip. 

Ignoring the pain that scorched the length of his back _(not so bad, really, now that she’d got him taking those wee tablets)_ , Jamie looked down at her with his eyes sparkling triumphantly.

“See?” he panted, well pleased with himself. “Told ye I could do it.” 

Claire had gone deathly pale. Her amber eyes were blown wide, flitting from side to side as the shock of what he’d done gave way to thinly-veiled panic. “Alright,” she conceded slowly, letting her breath out in a controlled stream. She nodded at him once, eyes finally locking on his. “Alright. You’ve made your point. Now, for the love of God, sit back down.”

“Dinna need to sit. I’m braw. Now, if ye’ll just help me take the few wee steps over to the sink, I’ll—”

She lifted her chin, eyes flashing with whisky fire. “I’ll do no such thing! I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Jamie, but you’re _significantly_ larger than me—”

He _had_ noticed; standing in front of her for the first time, he marveled at how small she was, how fragile and delicate between the frame of his hands. Having only ever looked up at her from the bed, it was a stunning revelation.  

“—and if you start to fall, I won’t be able to catch you—”

“I’m no’ gonna fall.” Even as he said it, he felt his knees begin to buckle slightly. He locked them straight with every ounce of strength he possessed, refusing to be beaten by this. _Not now, not in front of her._ “The PTs are always sayin’ I need to challenge myself, aye? That it’s the fastest way to get better.”

“It is,” Claire agreed, with more than a hint of exasperation. “But you have to go about it in a way that’s _safe,_ Jamie. In the proper setting, with the proper equipment and people there to help you. I know you think you’re ready for this, but—”

“But you can’t believe me.” He smiled down at her. His mouth trembled slightly, but he smiled. “Ye’ll no’ tell me what I canna do, Sassenach.”

“Yes,” she said flatly — eyebrows raised, lips pursed. “I can see that.”

“Will ye help me or no’, Claire?” His expression softened a bit, eyes imploring her to understand. “I just… I _just_ want to get over there for _five_ minutes, and then—” Before he could even get the words out, his knees started to buckle again. Claire leaned into him on instinct, bracing him with her body weight, her hands scooping down to grip him by the elbows. It was enough to steady him momentarily, and he growled, clenching his teeth. Forcing himself fully upright again on screaming muscles, he gritted out, “I just— I just need tae—” 

But he couldn’t hold it any more. Betrayed by his own useless body, he dropped back down to the edge of the mattress with a grunt. Gripping the side rail to keep from falling flat on the ruin of his back, he cursed viciously in both English and Gaelic. His face contorted with pain, burning red to the very tips of his ears.

Claire was bent forward now as she held him steady, her wee hands shaking with adrenaline, ribcage heaving against his. After a few quavering breaths, she pulled back to look at him, eyes flicking up and down his form with an assessing nurse’s gaze. 

“Are you alright?” she asked shakily. 

“Aye, m’ _fine.”_ Jamie shrugged out of her grasp with more anger than he meant. Unable to look at her, he fixed his glare on his traitorous knees, jaw clenched, and hoped she’d let him be. 

Of course, Hurricane Claire was just getting warmed up.

“That was a _stupid_ thing to do, Jamie,” she scolded, her voice still wavering, but firmer now, furious. “You know that, don’t you?” Jamie clenched his jaw so tightly a muscle twitched in his neck. He still wouldn’t look up at her, but he heard Claire take a few breaths through her nose. When she spoke again, there was a froggy tightness to her voice. 

“You—you could have been seriously hurt, and there would have been _nothing_ I could have done to stop it.”

The timbre of her voice alone was enough to finally draw his gaze up to hers; the look on her face was enough to hold it there. 

 _Christ._ The lass was well and truly terrified. 

Chest heaving, lips trembling a bit even as she tried to press them into submission, she demanded, “Don’t you _ever_ do that to me again, James Fraser. Do you hear me?”

Jamie’s middle and ring fingers began to tap out a staccato rhythm against his outer thigh. Chastened, he dropped his head and nodded once. 

“Aye,” he agreed, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. “Aye, I hear ye.” 

A pause, a swallow, then he passed a hand over his face, letting out his breath in a heavy sigh. 

“I’m sorry, lass. I didna mean tae frighten ye. It’s just—” 

He trailed off, unsure how to voice the jumble of thoughts twisting together in his mind. Glazed eyes trained on the floor, he shook his head dismissively and said instead, “Ye’re right, Sassenach. It was daft. Ye have my word, I willna do it again.”  

He felt it before he saw it: the gradual shift in the charge of the air between them, as fear and anger gave way to something softer. He didn’t look up as she lowered slowly into a crouch in front of him, her hands finding his and stilling them against his thighs.

“Jamie,” she murmured. Gentle as a summer breeze through the heather, but an implied command nonetheless: 

 _Look at me._  

And he did; slowly, he raised his lashes, feeling like an utter, irredeemable arse. Claire’s brows were tipped up a bit, compassion etched into every line of her face. Golden brown eyes stared deeply into the blue of his, bright and warm with an understanding of the words he’d left unspoken — the insecurities that raged beneath the exterior of a gallant, pigheaded fool. 

She could see him, and he knew it.

He could see her, too.

Jamie threaded his fingers through hers, still resting against his thighs, and Claire didn’t pull away; she only gripped tighter to him, whisky eyes open and honest, silently requesting the same from him.

“What’s this really about?” she asked softly.

His fingertips curled against the backs of her hands as he tried to find the words that had eluded him before. Wetting his lips, he admitted, “I feel foolish sayin’ it.”

“Don’t,” she reassured him with a gentle squeeze. “It’s just me.” 

_‘Just’ you… Christ, ye really have no idea, do ye?_

But all things being equal, he supposed he’d rather look a fool than disappoint her. So, taking a breath, he tried his best to explain. 

“It’s… it’s just…” He dropped his gaze again; not to hide from her, but because he couldn’t seem to focus on finding the right words when he was staring into her eyes. “I think there’s a part of you that has to die a little, mebbe, when ye’re in the hospital this long. When all of yer energy is spent fightin’ just to stay alive, ye dinna think much about it, I suppose. There’s no’ much space to worry about anything but the pain, and then after so long, ye just… get used to it, ye ken? Bein’ in bed all day, livin’ yer whole life in this wee bubble, wi’ no real grasp of the outside world or the place ye used tae have in it. And it’s… it’s _mental,_ when ye think about it… when ye think about the person you used tae be, and then ye stop and look at yerself now, and think… _Christ_. I canna even wipe my own arse, or go to the damn faucet for a drink o’ water when I’ve a thirst. It… to—to be completely reliant on strangers to help ye with the most _personal_ things, day in and day out, it just…” He sighed, letting his eyes slip shut. “You forget, after a while. What things used tae be like. And now that I’m _finally_ starting to get better, ye ken, starting to remember what it’s like to be a… a _man_ again, no’ just a _patient,_ it’s just… hard. I suppose. To realize how… _helpless_ I’ve become.”

There was silence for so long after he’d finished speaking that he was afraid to open his eyes again. He felt the blood creep up his neck and into his cheeks and ears as he realized just how long he’d rambled on, what a _goddamn haverin’ eejit_ Claire must think him to be. 

Just as he began to draw in a breath to apologize, her hands disentangled from his, and reached up to cradle his face. 

He did open his eyes, then. And looked straight into hers, watching tears roll silently down her cheeks.

She had to swallow twice before she could answer him.

“You are _anything_ but helpless, Jamie Fraser,” she croaked, her voice wavering and cracking over his name. Her thumbs wove back and forth over the arcs of his cheekbones, the stubbled hollows of his jaw. They stilled after a moment, her hold on him tightening. “You’re the strongest person I know.”

Praying to God that she wouldn’t think him too forward, Jamie slowly bowed his head until his forehead came to rest against the curve of her shoulder. Quietly, so quietly he wasn’t sure she could hear, he whispered, “I dinna feel strong.” 

Her hands moved to cradle his head, his neck, holding him to her. They stayed that way for a few moments before he huffed out a bitter wee laugh. His lips brushed the fabric of her scrub top as he murmured, “Canna even get to the feckin’ sink to shave my own beard.”

Claire shifted the hand in his hair to the far side of his head, encouraging him to look up at her. “Is that what you were trying to do?” she asked softly. “Just now?”

He shrugged in resignation. “I’m a mess, Sassenach. Got a good look at myself in the mirror for the first time today when I got up wi’ PT.” He dragged a hand across the scratchy stubble of his jaw and up into the long, straggly tangles of his hair. “I look like I’ve been livin’ on the streets.”

Given their unspoken promise to be honest with one another, Claire thankfully didn’t jump in with reassurances to the contrary. Her fingers followed his into his hair, a thoughtful expression settling over her face. 

“I think I might be able to help you with that,” she said, taking a red lock experimentally between two fingers. She let her hand drop away after a moment, meeting his eyes. “Get you trimmed up a bit. We can do it together, if you’d like.”

He sat up fully then. “Aye,” he agreed, a wee smile lifting the corner of his mouth. “I’d be much obliged, Sassenach.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The One Quote Oneshot quote assigned to me was: 
> 
>   _“But you can’t believe me.” He smiled down at me. His mouth trembled slightly, but he smiled. “Ye’ll no’ tell me what I canna do, Sassenach.”_
> 
> Thank you so much, NEJF and BHW, for letting me play! 😘


	13. Revelation, Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _A/N: This is not at all where I thought this chapter was going to end; alas, Jamie Fraser (the wee sap) had other plans, so this became a two-parter. If you've been paying attention to my teasers over on twitter and tumblr, fear not; I have every intention to follow through in Part II!_

She found Gillian sprawled out at the nurses’ station — feet propped up on the rolling chair in front of her, ankles crossed, one earbud in, completely absorbed in an episode of _The-Real-Housewives-of-Something-or-Another_ on her phone. 

“Hey, G,” Claire greeted, scooting up to sit on the desk in front of her.

Gill popped a barbecue Pringle in her mouth, sucked a bit of brown dust from her fingertips, then waggled them at Claire absently without looking up from her screen. 

“You on lunch, or things just quiet?”

Green eyes did snap up then, reduced to accusing slits. _“Shh!”_ she hissed, leaning over to rap her knuckles on the wooden desk. “Feck _right off_ with the _Q_ word, Beauchamp. If we get slammed wi’ six ED admits now, I’m makin’ ye take two of ‘em!”

Claire grimaced, knocked on wood herself, then raised her hand in conciliation. “Sorry. But you’re alright if I go to lunch? I need to run home and grab a few things.” 

“Mmphm,” Gill hummed, already lost in her program again. She held out a palm for Claire’s pager, clipped it to her scrub top alongside her own, and grabbed another stack of Pringles from the can in her lap. “Go eat, ye wee twig. Ye’re too feckin’ skinny these days.”

“Thanks,” Claire said flatly, sliding down from the desk and making to leave.

“How’s yer wee boyfriend, by the way?” Gill called after her, stopping her in her tracks. Frowning, Claire turned to fix her friend with a narrow look.

“My what?”

Gill’s face split in a Cheshire cat grin behind her glowing mobile screen. “Ye ken good and well who I mean.”

Claire huffed out an incredulous laugh. “What, _Jamie?”_

Her friend shrugged innocently, eyebrows quirked in amusement. “You said it, no’ me.”

“My _patient_ is doing quite well, thank you for asking.”

“Oh, good. Glad to hear it.” She popped another crisp between her teeth. “... So has he proposed yet?”

“I’m leaving now.”

“Have a nice lunch!” Gill crowed to her retreating back. _“Oi,_ and Claire! Bring him back a wee snack! Ye ken they say the best way to a man’s heart is through his wame!”

Claire raised her middle finger as she stalked off down the hall, the delighted peals of Gillian’s laughter following her to the elevator. 

 

* * *

 

  
  
It had been a joke. A goddamned joke. 

But it haunted her all the way back to her flat. 

Claire hadn’t the faintest idea why. 

She flicked on the lights and stood in the middle of her entryway for a few moments — hands on her hips, eyes glazed, lip caught between her teeth — replaying the conversation with Gillian in her head, trying to get a grasp on why it was bothering her so much. 

At last, she decided it was simply that she’d tried _so hard_ to appear unaffected at work since the accident; having her professionalism challenged, even in jest, was a hard pill to swallow. 

That was it. That _must_ be it; there was no other reasonable explanation.

Ignoring the lingering swirl of unease in her belly, she squared her shoulders and set about rummaging through her flat for the items she’d need to get her _patient_ properly cleaned up: shampoo and conditioner — the _good_ kind, salon bought, intended for curly hair; a spare five-blade razor; a new bar of Dove soap _(she didn’t think Jamie would appreciate using her pink_ Skintimate Raspberry Rain _shaving gel)_ ; the pair of scissors she used to trim her own curls when she was feeling daring; a plush towel and washcloth, much nicer than the rough, pilled hospital-grade ones.

Once she had everything thrown together in a canvas grocery bag, she paused at the front door, glanced at the clock, then over toward her kitchen as an afterthought. Meandering to the fridge, she opened the door and stared at the paltry, uninspiring offerings within. She pried open the lid on a container of questionable Chinese takeout, took a sniff, shrugged, and kicked the fridge door shut. Grabbing a fork from the dishwasher she hadn’t bothered to unload, Claire crammed five bites of cold lo mein in her mouth, tossed the rest, and was on her way again.

“Everyone behave?” she asked ten minutes later, finding Gillian exactly where she’d left her. The charge nurse looked up at her blandly as she handed back her pager.

“No’ a peep.” She peered curiously at the bag slung over Claire’s shoulder. “Whadja bring me, then?”

Claire shifted the canvas bag down so that Gill could see inside. “Unless you want a shower, nothing, I’m afraid.” At the uncomprehending squint from her friend, she clarified, “It’s for Jamie. I’m going to help him get a proper shave and shampoo.” 

Gill stretched her arms over her head, leaning back in her chair with the singularly most _obnoxious_ smirk Claire had ever seen in her life. Before the charge nurse could even open her mouth, she bit out, _“Don’t.”_

“Dinna ken what ye mean, Claire,” her friend singsonged. “You go on and shear yer wee sheep, and I’ll just sit here, mindin’ my own business, wi’ nae opinion on the subject whatsoever...”

Rolling her eyes, Claire scoffed, “That’d be a first.”

As she rounded the corner out of sight, Gill’s voice trailed after her, “But ye _will_ let me know if the rug matches the drapes, though, aye? I’ve been dyin’ to know!”

 

* * *

 

  
Jamie was asleep when she went to check on him. Claire set the canvas bag on his bathroom counter and tiptoed back out again, putting her finger over the door latch while she shut it to muffle the click. She watched through the narrow window to make sure he didn’t stir, then went to round on her other four patients. It seemed that Jamie’s sound slumber was a rarity tonight; three of the others woke in short order, needing something from her _(pain meds, a new bag of IV fluids, a page to the doctor requesting something different for nausea, then a large pink basin when the meds didn’t come fast enough)_. By the time she got everyone settled and charted what she’d done, it was nearly 2 A.M., and time for Jamie’s next dose of antibiotics. 

Silent as a shadow, she slipped back into room 43 and badged into the computer. When she stepped over to Jamie’s bed to scan his ID bracelet, he lifted his wrist for her automatically, and she jerked back in surprise.

 _“Jesus H. Christ.”_ She let her breath out in a choked laugh. “I thought you were asleep.”  

“I was,” Jamie assured her, his voice deep and gravelly. “On and off. I dinna ever sleep long in this place.”

“Sorry.” She tilted his hand gently with her fingertips to scan his wristband.

“Och, no, ‘twasn’t you, Sassenach. Ye’re quiet as a church mouse. I was already awake when ye came in.”

“What, just lying awake in the dark?”

“Mmphm.” He shrugged. “No’ much else to do.”

She raised an eyebrow at him while she stepped back over to the computer to scan his medication. “As someone who’s _always_ awake in the middle of the night, I beg to differ.”

“Mm. Well, I’m open to suggestions, Sassenach.” He tilted his head on the pillow, watching her cross the room back to him again. “What is it you do on yer nights off?”

Claire let out a pensive sigh as she spiked the antibiotic and hung it from his IV pole. “Well... I read quite a bit. Surf the internet. Bake. Watch a lot of HGTV.”

Jamie glanced up at her, eyes twinkling with amusement. “Fancy yerself a wee fixer-upper, do ye?”

“Uh, no,” she admitted, her lip curling wryly. “More like an expert at judging people’s flooring and backsplash choices in houses I could never afford.”

He gave a throaty hum of laughter, the hint of a dimple cutting into his cheek. Claire returned it, then dropped her lashes with a sudden and inexplicable wave of shyness. “By the way, I, um…” She gestured over her shoulder at the bag on his bathroom counter. “I ran home on my lunch break to fetch some proper shampoo and scissors and everything, if you still wanted to—”

“Aye.” Jamie propped himself up on an elbow. “Aye, do ye have the time now?”

“I think so. Everyone else seems to be sorted for the moment.” She glanced up at the clock with a sudden pang of guilt, then back at him. “But it’s two in the morning, Jamie. We could do this later, if you want to try and get a bit more sleep...”

He sat fully upright then, kicking his legs out from under the blankets and over the side of the bed. “No, I’m braw. Like I said, dinna sleep much anyway. I’m usually awake at this time o’ night.”

Claire gave him a hesitant smile, then nodded once. “Alright. Well, let’s…” She looked around at the sink, the bathroom, the bed, weighing her options. “Let’s wash your hair first, then. I had an idea about that. I think if you sit on the rolling stool, you can lean back and rest just your neck on the edge of the sink, like at the salon. We can try it, anyway. But if it hurts your back, you need to tell me straight away, and we’ll figure something else out.”

“Sounds like a plan, Sassenach. Slide it over and we’ll gi’e it a go, then.”

The near-fall was too fresh not to give her pause; she fretted her lip unhappily for a moment before suggesting, “Maybe we should call Elias in, just to help get you transferred.”

Jamie rolled his eyes, huffing out an exasperated laugh. “For the love of God, Claire, I think I can handle scooting my arse from the bed to a wee stool. Dinna even need to stand up tae do that.”

Claire made a dull hum of acceptance, but still eyed him skeptically as she hooked the stool with her foot and pulled it over to him. When Jamie scooted eagerly to the edge of the mattress and prepared to slide over, she put a hand on his shoulder to stop him, forcing him to look her in the eye. “You have to give me your word you’ll tell me if it’s too much. If you’re in pain, or you start to get tired, or—”

“I will. Promise.” He lifted his pinky to her with a twitch of a smile, and they both let out soft breaths of laughter as Claire crooked her own around it. 

“I’m going to hold you to that, James Fraser,” she told him, squeezing his little finger tightly with her own. “A pinky promise is a very serious transaction, you know.”

“Oh, I know,” he said gravely, even as his eyes sparkled. “Wouldna give such a vow to just anyone, Sassenach.”

 

* * *

 

 _Of all the daft feckin’ moves, Fraser. What are ye, five?_  

He could feel himself burning red straight to his ears the second his damn pinky was in the air, but then it was out there, and he couldn’t exactly take it back. Claire took pity on him and indulged the juvenile wee gesture anyway, but _Jesus Christ_ , he was such an idiot.

At least he managed not to fall flat on his arse when he scooted onto her rolling stool. Despite his assurances, it _did_ occur to him that it was possible he’d not have the coordination to do it himself. Sheer stubborn pride spurred him to risk it; thank God he was a lucky bastard. He quirked his eyebrows triumphantly at Claire when he landed the transition smoothly, and she conceded the point with a pursed-lip nod. 

Using his feet to maneuver himself experimentally around the room, he beamed up at his nurse in pleasant surprise after a moment. “This was a stroke of genius, Sassenach. I canna use the wheelchairs ‘cos of the pressure on my back, but this…” He twirled himself in a circle, pushed backwards and forwards to demonstrate the ease of movement. “This is brilliant!”

She smiled at him indulgently, planting a hand on one hip. “Oh, God. What have I gotten myself into?”

He grinned at her over his shoulder. “More than ye signed up for. Gi’e a Scotsman a wee taste of freedom...”

“Mm. So I’ll be chasing you down the hallways in the middle of the night, trying to corral you back into bed, is that it?”

“Aye, somethin’ like that.”

Her foot jutted out suddenly to catch one of his wheels and snap down the wee brake mechanism on top. Jamie tried to scoot away from her, failed, and let out a bark of laughter. “Well played, Sassenach.” 

“Not my first rodeo,” she told him with a cheeky smile, then flicked the brake off and gestured him over to the sink. “Come on. Let’s see what I can do with that hair.” 

He sobered then, using the balls of his feet to backpedal very carefully toward the sink. Once he got close, Claire cupped her hand beneath his head and guided him the rest of the way, easing him backwards until his nape pressed against the speckled beige quartz. 

“Is that alright?” she asked, frowning a little. 

He was wincing, he realized, and made a conscious effort to relax his face. It wasn’t exactly comfortable; even without his back touching anything, the stretch of leaning this way burned something fierce. Still, it wasn’t any worse than the pain he’d borne for weeks, before the Sassenach got him on a regimen of taking those helpful wee pills. He’d promised to tell her if it was too much, and he was a man of his word; what he _hadn’t_ said was that it would take a _hell_ of a lot of pain — certainly more than this — to get him to ask her to stop. 

Jamie could bear quite a bit, given proper motivation.

And the promise of Claire’s hands in his hair again was the finest motivation he’d had all week.

He dug his nails into the leather seat of the stool, smiled as convincingly as he could, and rolled his neck back and forth as though he were trying to get comfortable. “Aye, just fine, Sassenach.”

Her golden eyes flicked back and forth, studying his face as if trying to judge his sincerity. At last, she nodded and flipped the taps on. 

“I, ah—” She wrung her hands, shrugging in the direction of the wee bag she’d brought from home. “I brought my own shampoo and conditioner. It’s a bit, you know, _floral_ , but it’s, um, it’s meant for curls, and—”

“Och, I dinna mind at all,” Jamie interrupted, trying and failing not to sound too eager. Swallowing, he stammered a bit as a heated flush crept up his neck. “The, uh, the stuff they gi’e ye in the hospital is like water, ye ken. Only makes the tangles that much worse.”

“Right, no, it’s terrible. This should help with that.” Claire disappeared for a moment, then re-entered his visual field with a tall black bottle in each hand. She set them on the sink beside him, then stuck her hand in the stream of water. After fiddling with the taps for a few seconds, testing the temperature, she cupped a handful of water and trickled it over the crown of his head. 

“How’s that?” she murmured.

“Perfect.”

She drew in a deep breath, smiled at him, then nodded. “Good.” Exhaling shakily, she reached over for the first bottle. He heard the squirt of shampoo into her palm, and after a pause _(one heartbeat… two… three…),_ her fingers threaded slowly, tentatively into his hair.   

Jamie bit down on his tongue, hard, and somehow managed not to make a sound. 

But _Christ._

Plenty of people touched him now that he was out of the ICU. Casual contact that didn’t hurt _(a handshake, a congratulatory pat on the arm or wrist or knee)_ was part of his everyday life again. He couldn’t chalk it up to deprivation any more. 

It was Claire. There was something about _Claire’s_ touch… 

It wasn’t just gentle, it was… _reverent,_ almost, the way her fingers cradled him, stroked through his hair. Though his eyes had slipped shut, he could feel her watching him to make sure she wasn’t hurting him. She was delicate, _sae delicate_ , slipping his lathered curls between her fingertips to ease out the tangles, then smoothing them, combing them through, slowly, carefully.

He felt warm to his very bones; felt them soften and melt like butter set out in the sun. 

 _Cherished._ That was the word for it. High on the scent of the shampoo steaming around him — _Claire’s scent_ — dizzy and floating and warm and _cherished_.

Jamie opened half-lidded eyes to look at her, and the corner of her lip curved shyly.

He surrendered then and there.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d known. Since the first night, maybe, when she held him in her arms while he wept. But there could be no more pushing it back, no more rationalizing it away or pretending it wasn’t there. 

He wanted her. 

Craved her. 

Was thoroughly intoxicated by her. 

Loved her, maybe. 

She cupped a handful of water, smoothed it just above his temple and back around his ear. Jamie closed his eyes, and tilted his head into her palm with a soft sigh.

_Nae… no’ maybe._


	14. Revelation, Part II

“There,” Claire huffed, nudging the taps off with her wrist and flicking her fingers into the sink. “I think that should do it.” Leaning sideways, she grabbed one of the towels from her canvas bag, but before she could turn back to Jamie he’d righted himself on the stool, red curls streaming. She lunged at him with the towel, trying her best to capture the conditioner-slick rivulets before they could streak down his back and burn the open flesh. 

Blue eyes flicked up briefly to hers, the skin around them drawn tight with pain. “Sorry,” he hissed. “Needed to sit up. I was gettin’ a cramp.”

“You might have told me,” Claire muttered, rubbing his head and neck down with the towel, scrunching up the curls at his nape to squeeze out the excess moisture.

“Just did.” 

She shot him a look, and he smiled, dropping his gaze again. “Dinna fash, Sassenach. Didn’t even notice ‘til the end.”

He wasn’t lying, either. Noting his poorly-veiled discomfort when she first began, Claire had gone in with the intention to be quick about it — get him shampooed, conditioned, and back to bed in two minutes flat. But as soon as her fingers slipped into his curls, Jamie’s whole demeanor had relaxed; melting into her hands, he looked so _peaceful_ that she found her movements slowing instinctively. Knowing that he took comfort from having his hair stroked, Claire had begun to draw out the process, prolonging the moment of quiet pleasure — fingertips teasing apart each curl individually, massaging slow, gentle circles across his scalp. All the while, she’d watched the subtle tells in his facial muscles, the slow, steady pulse in his throat. And it was true: if Jamie was in pain, he _hadn’t_ seemed to notice. 

But a pinprick of guilt pierced her now, witnessing the aftermath of a session she realized she’d dragged out too long. She was supposed to be the professional here. She was supposed to know better.

Narrowing in on something simple, something _tangible_ to fix, she plucked at the soaked cotton covering his shoulders. “Your gown’s all wet,” she murmured.

“Och, if _only_ there were others.” 

With a pursed-lip smile, she took a fistful of his hair in the towel and squeezed a bit harder than strictly necessary. “Cheeky. Get back into bed. Might as well give you a bath while we’re at it, since you’ve already done half the job.”

The silence between them dragged out a single beat too long before Jamie’s throat bobbed in a swallow. “Aye,” he agreed hoarsely, fingers curling over the edge of his knees. “Aye, might as well.”

Feeling her stomach flip at the tension crackling through the room, Claire offered hastily, “If you’d prefer someone else come and do it, I—”

“No.” He’d gone stone still. “I don’t.”

Now it was Claire’s turn to swallow thickly.

Several more beats of silence passed in which neither of them seemed capable of moving. At long last, without looking at her, Jamie scooted the stool over to the bed and reached up to take hold of the side rails. Realizing his intent, Claire launched forward, outstretched hands latching onto his shoulders just as he began to hoist himself up. 

_“Wait,”_ she demanded. “Let me help you...” 

“I’ve got it, Sassenach.”

Amber eyes flashed as she fixed him with a glare. “You promised me.” 

Jamie gave her an exasperated smile, but eased back with a sigh of defeat. “So I did.” He lifted his left arm to let her brace him, his broad fingers clasping around her shoulder. “On the count of three, then?”

Claire gave a nod. “One. Two…”

_“Three,”_ they said together, lifting and pivoting him up onto the mattress in one fluid movement. Jamie’s grimace gave way to a tight smile as he panted out a satisfied-sounding Gaelic phrase. His hand lingered on Claire’s shoulder for a moment, then quickly dropped in the same moment that she stepped back, wringing her hands.

“Let’s, um,” she began, eyes flicking over the water stains on his gown, then up to his damp curls. She gestured vaguely at his head. “I think it makes more sense to cut your hair first.”

Jamie nodded briefly, his lip pinched between his teeth. As Claire retraced her steps to fetch the scissors and towel, she realized her hands were shaking. She shook them out, then gripped them into fists, eyeing them uneasily. 

_Adrenaline,_ she rationalized. From Jamie trying to get up on his own again. Fear of her patient falling and hurting himself.

The excuse rang hollow even in her own head. She was a bloody mess; flustered and disorganized in a way that was unnervingly out of character.

Squeezing her eyes shut for a moment, she drew in a deep breath through her nose. _For Christ’s sake, Beauchamp, get it together._

As she returned to Jamie’s bedside and kneed the stool out of the way, the thought belatedly occurred to her that it had been a mistake to move him back into bed before she’d finished cutting his hair. She’d only made maneuvering around his head more difficult for herself. 

Jamie seemed to come to the same conclusion as she leaned over him, draping the towel around his shoulders. “We didna really think this through, did we?”

“No.” She let out a huff of a laugh. “But it’s alright. I’ll make it work.”

“I can move back to the stool, if it’d make it easier—”

_“No,”_ she told him sternly, while she attempted to knot the thick towel at his throat. “You sit right where you are.” 

“Aye-aye, Captain.” His eyes glinted, lip twitching in a smirk. After a moment of watching her struggle with the towel, he raised an eyebrow. “Do ye need help wi’ that?”

Claire made a soft grunt in the negative, untwisting the hair tie from her bun and pinching it between her teeth. “Nope, I’ve got it.” She gathered the corners of the towel and banded them into a wad of cream-colored terrycloth. Stepping back to appraise her handiwork, she gave a bland shrug of acceptance before her gaze shifted up to Jamie’s. 

Her heart stuttered a half-beat out of rhythm at the expression on his face. 

His eyes were trained on her unbound curls, watching her with a warm, awestruck tenderness that flushed her from breasts to neck to cheeks. Letting out a breath through parted lips, she smiled self-consciously, raking her fingers back through her hair.

“Doesn’t inspire much confidence in my own hair-wrangling abilities, does it?” she asked hoarsely, eyes darting away in embarrassment before lifting back to his, unable to look away for long.

Jamie hummed a laugh, but sobered again quickly as his eyes traced the riot of frizzy curls framing her face. “Nah, it’s no’ that. Yer... curls are... _sae_ bonny, Sassenach. I was just wonderin’ why ye dinna leave them down more often.”

She gestured at the unruly mop with an awkward laugh. “Because when I do, by the end of my shift they wind up looking like _this.”_

“Aye,” Jamie whispered reverently, as if she’d proven his point.

A shiver ran down her spine, and Claire looked away with a sharp exhale, crossing her arms over her chest. “So let’s, ah…” Her voice wavered as she tried to speak past the heartbeat pounding in her throat. “Let’s hope for your sake that I make better work of your hair than I do with mine.”

“Och, I trust ye’ll do a fine job,” Jamie said, straightening his posture and scooting a bit closer to the edge of the mattress. A smile played at the corner of his mouth as he ruffled a hand through his shaggy curls. “Shear away, Sassenach. I’m all yours.”

 

* * *

 

 

It occurred to him sometime later, as he watched a damp auburn curl flutter down to join a pile of its brethren on the bed, that he was placing a great deal of faith in the lass, letting her at his head with a pair of scissors and no direction whatsoever — no indication of length or style, no pictures of him from before to use for guidance. He was utterly at the mercy of Claire’s personal whims and preferences, watching her through his lashes as she snipped here and there, paused to study him, then snipped a bit more. 

Strangely enough, Jamie found he didn’t mind at all.

And, as it turned out, his faith was well-placed. 

He looked up expectantly when the lass finally stepped back to examine him for the last time, tilting her curly head from side to side before nodding to herself.

“I _think_...” she lilted, taking a half-step forward to sweep a stray lock off to the side of his forehead, then pulling his curls down between her fingertips on both sides of his face to check for evenness. “That’ll about… do it.” She nodded again, more certain this time. “Let me fetch you a mirror, see what you think.”

His fingers began to drum an anxious beat against the mattress. “I’m excited tae see. Been half-convinced this whole time ye’ve been givin’ me a Bozo cut.”

“The thought did occur to me,” she quipped as she turned to rummage through his bedside stand. Righting herself a moment later, she spun back to him holding a handheld mirror. “Alright.” Exhaling sharply, she lifted it up for him. “Have a look.” 

Jamie reached out to tilt the mirror just so. 

His eyes went wide at the reflection staring back at him, his mouth falling open incredulously.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he murmured, rotating his head like an owl’s as he examined Claire’s handiwork. 

The Sassenach chewed her lip nervously as she watched him. “Do… do you like it?”

_Like_ was an understatement; he couldn’t stop staring. His hand went up into his hair, exploring the feel of his freshly-shorn locks as if making sure the ones on his head actually matched those in the mirror. “Like it? I think it’s the best cut I’ve ever had,” he told her, turning smiling eyes up to hers. “What’s yer hourly rate, Sassenach? My barber is fired.”

She blushed prettily and smiled back. “You know, it was fun, actually,” she mused, brushing her fingers through his fringe. “I’ve never tried cutting anyone _else’s_ hair before. Just my own.” Her lower lip disappeared between her teeth again as she laughed. “Suppose I should have mentioned that _before_ I started.”

Jamie hummed a throaty chuckle in return. “Well, my hat’s off to ye, Sassenach. Ye _did_ do a fine job.”

“Thank you, thank you.” She inclined her head and dipped in a wee curtsy. “I’ll be here all week.” 

He reached for her hand then, and they both sobered at the touch, their eyes locking. “Truly, Claire. Thank ye. It… it makes a difference, ye ken?”

A tiny, genuine smile touched the corners of her mouth as her fingers squeezed his. “It’s my pleasure, Jamie,” she whispered. Her eyes roamed his face pensively for a moment, then she took a step closer, the fingers of her left hand drifting to the stubble of his chin. “And don’t forget, I’m not quite done with you yet.”

“No,” he said softly, his thumb working a slow circle over the flesh of her palm. “I didna forget.”

 

* * *

 

 

It was always an awkward affair, bathing a young male patient, and nothing to be done about it. 

As a med/surg nurse, Claire had bathed countless men and women of all ages and races, shapes, sizes, body types. After three years in this career, very little could faze her any more _(“We’ve seen more cocks than a porn star,” Gillian loved to joke)_ . It was part of the job, and she got on with it unflinchingly. The patients, on the other hand, tended to struggle with the vulnerability, the exposure; _particularly_ the young men, whose egos were very easily bruised.

Unsurprisingly, Jamie couldn’t meet her eyes as she tucked bath blankets and towels around him, filled a large pink basin with warm water from the sink, and fetched the Dove soap and washcloth she’d brought from home. The middle and ring fingers of his left hand were tapping out a dull rhythm against his thigh when she returned to his bedside with a clean gown and a few extra towels for good measure. Planting her hands on her hips, Claire took in a breath and released it in a sharp sigh. 

“Right. So. Let’s be organized about this, shall we? I’ll hand you a washcloth to clean whatever you can, and in the meantime, I’ll go ahead and get the bits you can’t reach. When we’re done, you can slide on over to the stool to shave while I swap out the bedding, and we’ll be all set. Sound like a plan?”

Jamie looked up at her, finally, with surprise that ebbed quickly into relief. “Aye. I didna realize… usually they just scrub me down. They dinna let me help.”

“Well, I’ll have a word with the aides about that. We need to start letting you do more of this. You’re certainly capable.”

A bright smile split his face, his eyes shining with appreciation. He gave Claire a slight nod, and she returned it.

_This,_ she reminded herself, feeling a glowing warmth emanate from the very core of her being. _This is why I’m here._

Jamie had been willing to be vulnerable with her earlier _(in a way that she knew he wasn’t with the other nurses)_ in confessing his profound sense of helplessness. And the fact that she could turn that confession into empowerment — give him a taste of the independence he so desperately craved — meant that she was actually, physically _doing_ something to make his life better in a way no one else could. 

And that was everything to her. _Everything._

Jamie unknotted his gown and pushed it down to bunch around his hips, then reached out a hand for a washcloth — steady and sure, the nervousness gone. She passed a soapy cloth to him, grabbed her own, and they lapsed into a companionable silence as they scrubbed in tandem; Jamie working from the top down, Claire starting at his feet.

She’d been right — Jamie was more than capable of handling most of this himself. He could reach his own arms and torso, all the way down to the tops of his thighs without bending or hurting his back. As such, Claire finished with his feet and legs long before he was done. She rinsed him off, toweled him down, and sat back patiently while he finished the rest.

She tried not to stare at him while she waited. Truly, she did.

But beneath her no-nonsense nurse exterior, she was a flesh-and-blood woman, after all. 

And Jamie was… well. How had Gillian put it? _No’ horrible to look at._

Not horrible at all. 

Despite the weeks of bedrest and the inevitable softening and atrophy that accompanied it, it was plain to her that Jamie Fraser was beautifully made, with long graceful bones and flat muscles that flowed smoothly from the curves of chest and shoulder to the slight concavities of belly and thigh. His limbs and chest were dusted in a soft fuzz of roughly the same color as the hair on his head, and before Claire could stop herself, she found her gaze tracing the midline of his well-toned abdomen down to the matching cinnamon-and-roan trail just beneath his navel…

“Can ye pass me another towel, Sassenach?” 

Blushing furiously, she snapped her eyes away when Jamie reached out a hand to her, thankfully absorbed in his task and completely oblivious to her wandering gaze. 

Not trusting her own voice, she nodded mutely and handed it to him, then rose and began to gather up the used washcloths and towels scattered around the bed. 

Christ, what on earth — what _on earth_ was she doing? 

Objectifying a male patient was bad enough; she was a goddamned professional, and better than that. 

But this was worse. This wasn’t _just_ a patient, this was _Jamie._

_Jamie Fraser, the man you nearly killed?_

She had no right — _none_ — to look at him with anything beyond the crisp professionalism of a hyper-competent nurse intent upon his rapid and successful rehabilitation. That’s why she was here. The banter, the _(admitted)_ light flirtation, that was all fine and well; he needed the companionship, the normalcy of lighthearted adult interactions. It was all within reason, all part of the plan. 

Finding herself attracted to him was decidedly _not_.

And so she barely looked at him throughout the remainder of the bath; doggedly, vehemently refused to cast a single glance in his direction that wasn’t strictly required by the mandates of her profession. While he toweled off and slipped on a clean gown, she was conveniently occupied dumping out the basin in the bathroom. By the time she came back out, he had slid himself back over to the stool, fully dressed and clean as a whistle, waiting for her to set up his shaving instruments. 

He quirked an eyebrow at her with a smirk when she brought him the razor from her bag, setting it down on his bedside table along with the soap, washcloth, and mirror. 

“Sorry. Pink was all I had.” Claire tried to smile, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“I’m only teasin’ ye, Sassenach.” Jamie blinked both eyes at her in what she’d rapidly learned was his own failed approximation of a wink. “I’m grateful to ye for goin’ out of yer way to fetch all this to begin with.”

“Oh, it was no bother,” she dismissed, turning away to strip the soggy linens from his bed. “I live just down the street.”

“Still.” She heard the slick sounds of him lathering soap between his hands. “It’s verra kind of ye, and I appreciate it.” There was a pause, and then he asked suddenly, as though the thought had just occurred to him, “Ye said ye went on yer lunch break. Did ye no’ get anything to eat, then? I have a few wee snacks tucked into my top drawer if ye’re hungry—”

“Oh, no,” she answered airily. “Thank you. That’s quite alright. I had some leftovers at home.” 

“Ah. I see.” He sounded unconvinced, but decided not to press the subject. She heard the soft _schick-schick-schick_ of the razor as he began to shave. “Well, the offer stands, Sassenach. Help yerself any time.” 

“That’s very hospitable of you, Jamie. Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind.” She pulled up the last corner of his fitted sheet and rolled the entire damp mess into a tight roll, lifting it up quickly and darting across the room to dump it in the linen cart before it dripped everywhere. Turning on her heel, she strode back across the room at a brisk clip to re-make the bed. 

Jamie’s hand caught her wrist as she stalked past, stilling her instantly. 

“Claire.”

She shut her eyes for the length of a single heartbeat, gathering her composure, then looked down at him with an expression of polite, professional inquisitiveness. 

Blue irises were trained on hers, flicking back and forth almost imperceptibly as he studied her. His brow was furrowed slightly, the premature lines of his face deepened in concern. “If I… if I said anything to offend ye, I’m sorry.”

In that, at least, she could be honest. “You didn’t,” she answered, removing her wrist gently from his grasp. He looked down at their parted hands, then back up at her face, a pang of hurt joining the doubt and confusion chasing their way through his expressive eyes. 

_Jesus H. Christ, will you never cease to hurt this poor man with your own fucking idiocy?_

Claire swallowed, feeling her professional resolve start to crumble. 

… She should tell him. 

Now. Right now.

He was improving steadily. Out of immediate danger. He had good relationships with other people on staff who would make sure he got home safely. He’d been in good spirits, for the most part; had good coping skills. He was on an adequate regimen for pain management. The doctors on his varying teams were all on the same page about his course of treatment. 

_He’ll be alright now, without me._

Claire opened and closed her mouth, feeling her heart bleed out slowly into her chest. 

She reached for Jamie’s hand and held it tightly for strength, knowing full well it would be the last time.

“Jamie, I…” she breathed, blinking against the oncoming burn of tears. His frown deepened at her palpable distress, and he brought his other hand up to envelop hers, his calloused fingers stroking gentle figure eights over her wrist. He tilted his face to the side as he studied her deeply.

And then she saw it. 

A swollen bead of dark red just beside the pulsing line of his carotid. 

“You’re bleeding,” she murmured.

Jamie blinked, then brought one of his hands up to touch his face absently. “Where?”

“Just… just there.” She pointed, and his thumb swiped at the droplet, smearing the skin with red. Immediately, a new bead of blood formed in its place and began to trickle down his neck. Without pausing to think, Claire grabbed the washcloth and bent to press it to his skin. “Here, let me.”

She held pressure for a moment, focused singularly on the task of staunching the _(rather minor)_ bleeding. It was a stalling tactic, she recognized, but one that she desperately needed to get her head together. She hadn’t planned this, hadn’t had any notion of telling him now, today, and _God,_ she wasn’t ready, she didn’t…

… didn’t have any idea how their faces had drawn so close. 

Claire raised her head by a fraction of a degree, lashes still lowered, and felt Jamie’s warm breath shudder across her cheek, the corner of her mouth. 

Feeling as though she were suspended in time, she slowly... slowly... raised her eyes to meet his. 

And released her own breath in a soft gasp over his parted lips. 

_Christ,_ she could almost taste him.

She wanted to. 

God in heaven… 

She wanted him.

Jerking away as if she’d been scalded, Claire dropped the washcloth and took four steps back. 

“I’m-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…” She was stammering, the blood in her body frantically divided between her flaming cheeks and the undeniable ache between her legs. Jamie watched her retreat with wide eyes, stunned into silence and flushed just as red, his own hands dropping in a rather conspicuous attempt to shield the tented bulge at the front of his gown. 

Raking her fingers back through her hair, Claire wheeled away from him to face the sink, trying to force air into her lungs and sanity back into her brain. Clinging to the last modicum of professionalism she possessed, she managed to rasp out, “I’ll… I’ll call Elias to help get you back into bed. Don’t you _dare_ try to get up on your own, understood?”

She hoped Jamie had nodded, because he said nothing. 

She fled his room with her heart pounding, and didn’t look back. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _A/N: *sings you a song of a lass that is gooooone*_
> 
> _By the way, I rarely throw in verbatim book references, but you might have noticed I borrowed a sentence from DG to describe Jamie's physique, because it's always struck me as rather perfect! Credit where credit is due..._ 😍


	15. Code of Conduct

Wide, restless blue eyes stared out the window for the better part of three hours, watching the first snowflakes of the season glitter beneath the streetlights.

Jamie had long given up on the prospect of getting any sleep that night. 

He’d spent the first fifteen minutes after Claire’s departure in a stupor. Dumbstruck. _Gobsmacked_. The poor tech had to repeat himself three times before he managed to snap Jamie out of it enough to get him back into bed. 

Curled up on his side sometime later, alone in the dark, Jamie had touched his lips absently, trying to wrap his head around the fact that he almost…

_She_ almost...

His rational mind had rebelled against the idea, at first; rejected it outright. He was certain it was wishful thinking, nothing more. 

_But then why would she apologize, if nothing—?_

No... Jamie Fraser had done his fair share of wishful thinking _(fantasizing)_ in his twenty-six years on this earth. He had a creative imagination, to be sure.

But no amount of imagination could have conjured the taste of her breath on his tongue. 

The shudder of humid warmth against his neck, then his chin… his lips… 

The way it hitched when she looked up at him. 

It made him burn for hours afterward. 

He’d given himself no relief either. Because immediately on the heels of the realization that the woman who haunted his every waking thought might _actually_ feel something for him in return came the dread that dropped his stomach like a stone.

Aye, they’d very nearly kissed... and then Claire had balked. Bolted from the room.

And he hadn’t heard a word from her since.  

Jamie fumbled blindly in the blankets behind him for his call light. Finding it, he hesitated, letting the pad of his thumb hover over the nurse button — the desperation to make things right suddenly hampered by his complete loss as to how to go about doing that. 

Forcing a confrontation when she was already spooked would likely only make matters worse. Perhaps, on second thought, it would be better to let Claire come to him in her own time? But even when she did ( _if_ she did), what on earth would he say to her? What words would soothe her, make her trust him, prove to her that she was safe with him, always? 

_“Claire, I’m so sorry, I never meant tae…”_

_“No, ye know what? I’m_ not _sorry. I wanted it more’n ye ken, so please, for the love of God, dinna be embarrassed...”_

Of course, there was the very real possibility that he wouldn’t get the opportunity to say anything at all. Claire wouldn’t abandon a patient, he knew that much, but she might send someone else in her stead — the charge nurse, or one of her peers.

The sinking sense of dread evolved into white-hot panic as the thought occurred to him that she might not ever want to see him again. 

He set the call light down next to him, fingers tapping restlessly against his pillow as his mind reeled and his stomach churned; as his lips tingled and his cock ached. 

_Christ, Fraser, ye need to find a way… there has to be a way. Ye canna lose her. Whatever happens, whatever it takes, ye canna lose her._

 

* * *

 

The job of a nurse was never truly done. 

Although there were plenty of quiet, low-acuity nights when Claire would join her colleagues for coffee and gossip in the lounge, perhaps a round _(or twenty)_ of Candy Crush, the downtime was not borne out of strict _necessity;_ there were certainly job-related things she _could_ be doing. 

Tonight she exhausted all of them.

Within a three-hour window, she’d managed to round on her sleeping patients _(save one)_ twelve times. She documented assessments in every column of their charts, created detailed care plans with several additional paragraphs’ worth of notes, and completed her mandatory online learning modules that weren’t even due until the following year. After that, she restocked the supply carts, answered call lights for other nurses, brewed a fresh pot of coffee for the staff, then scrubbed down all of the computer stations, doorknobs, handrails, and light switches with bleach wipes. 

She was the model employee; the epitome of professionalism.

So long as she stayed far, _far_ away from room 43 — didn’t look at him, breathe in his general vicinity, or think about him at all. 

A goal which Claire was currently failing miserably to attain, now that she’d caught up on every feasible job-oriented task she could come up with.

Sitting alone at a charting station on the far opposite side of the unit, she held her head in her hands and tried to think of anything but the smell of her shampoo in his hair, or the way his eyes creased when he laughed, or how his pupils had dilated when she nearly…

_Nearly ruined everything,_ she reminded herself, just barely suppressing a groan. 

If it were any other patient, she’d walk away. Ask not to be assigned to him again. Claire still wasn’t entirely sure that wasn’t what she _should_ do. They’d crossed a line — _she’d_ crossed a line — and under any other circumstances…  

But these _weren’t_ normal circumstances. This wasn’t just any other patient. She was in too deep, invested too thoroughly to walk away from him now. Jamie’s pain was her fault; his recovery was her duty.  

And regardless, it wasn’t about what _she_ wanted or needed any more. All that mattered was what was best for Jamie. 

Nothing about this was simple. There was no clear path forward. No matter what she did, no matter how she chose to conduct herself, there was the risk that she’d only hurt him more. Things had always been complicated between them, but now with the added layer of mutual attraction… 

_Christ_ , she just didn’t know what to do.

If she couldn’t manage to make it four hours without her thoughts returning to him, she supposed the likelihood of her being able to work on this floor several more weeks without interacting with him at all was slim to none. Avoidance was not particularly working for her, despite her best efforts. 

And that left only one option, really. 

She’d have to face him. Talk to him about it. Make him understand that _this_ … couldn’t happen. 

She could tell him the truth. Now. Tonight. She’d almost done it earlier. That option was still on the table, but… but _what if..._

It had been a long time since her orientation to the hospital, but surely there were rules in place — protocols about the nature of staff-patient interactions? Something official, a corporate line she could throw at Jamie to explain why they couldn’t pursue a relationship; allow her delay the inevitable confession for just a little while longer, let him finish healing before she crushed him _(and herself)_ with the horrible truth. 

Clicking into the internet browser on the computer in front of her, Claire navigated to the hospital’s webpage, then to the nursing code of conduct, looking for anything official to use as leverage. 

Her eyes lit up when she found it. 

_Within their professional role, nurses recognize and maintain appropriate personal relationship boundaries. Nurse-patient relationships have as their foundation the promotion, protection, and restoration of health and the alleviation of pain and suffering. Nurse-patient relationships are therapeutic in nature but can also test the boundaries of professionalism… The intimate nature of nursing care and the involvement of nurses in important and sometimes highly stressful events may contribute to the risk of boundary violations._

_Dating and sexually intimate relationships with patients are always prohibited._

There. Right there, in black and white.

_Prohibited._

She printed off a copy of the page, folded it, and put it in her scrub pocket, just in case Jamie needed proof.

Somehow, she doubted it. He had always taken her at her word, and she gave it honestly. Claire had her secrets, but she swore to herself that she would never lie to him. Though Jamie had never explicitly said as much, there was a silent understanding that he would do the same; a trust that whatever was said between them was the truth. 

And so, Claire pressed her palm against the paper in her pocket like a talisman, infinitely thankful to whichever member of the ethics board had been willing to spell out the strict restriction on romantic entanglements with patients. It wasn’t a lie; they _couldn’t_ do this. It was expressly forbidden.

Of course, that wasn’t the reason at all. But Jamie didn’t need to know that.

Not yet, anyway. 

The code of conduct had bought her time _(precious, precious time)_ , and Claire tried to let that thought fortify her, even as she felt her heart race and joints weaken with each step that brought her closer to room 43. She had a clear plan in place now — the relief of an excuse to hide behind. This wouldn’t hurt him, not in the way a personal rejection would. It was out of her control; out of his. 

Now it was simply a matter of laying down the letter of the law.

She paused outside his door for a moment, eyes closed, steeling her nerves.

Took a deep breath. Two. Three.

Reached her palm out for a splash of hand sanitizer, squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and opened her eyes. 

And with a hand that shook only a little, she opened Jamie’s door.

There was a moment of deja vu as she stepped into the darkened room, blinking rapidly to adjust her vision, to find the contour of him beneath the heap of blankets. Just like last time, he was turned away from her, facing the window — still, but not asleep. 

She shut the door behind her and leaned back against it, watching with her heart in her throat as Jamie slowly turned onto his belly, then over onto his right side, facing her. His features were cast into shadow against the backdrop of the window, but she could feel his eyes on her, studying her. She tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear self-consciously, then crossed her arms around herself — bracing, protecting. 

Before she could come up with some way to break the charged, crackling silence, Jamie did it for her. 

“Ye came back.” 

His tone was quiet, unreadable; if she’d been able to see his eyes, she might have been able to gauge whether he was frightened, relieved, nervous, hopeful, or some combination thereof… but in the darkness, she could only guess. 

“I did,” she whispered.

Jamie nodded, fidgeting with the corner of his blanket. There was another lengthy, pregnant pause before they suddenly both spoke at the same time, voices overlapping.

“Claire, I never meant tae—”

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have just—”

They both released soft breaths that were not quite laughter. Jamie yielded, gesturing to her amiably as he propped himself up on one elbow. “You go first.”

Claire made an anemic attempt at a smile and wrapped herself tighter, fingers digging into the slots between her ribs. She took a half-step forward, then stopped, fumbling for the words she’d been prepared to say. The more desperately she grasped for them, the further they seemed to scatter, rolling to the far corners of her mind like pearls cut from a string.

Jamie never stopped studying her as she struggled to maintain her professional composure. After several moments of watching her hesitation — her blatant nervousness — he slowly swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up. He shifted just slightly to one side as he did, so that the light from the window illuminated half of his face. 

“Ye needn’t be scairt of me, Claire.” His brow was furrowed, his expression tender, almost painfully earnest. 

She let out her breath, shaking her head. “I’m not.” 

And it was true. 

Claire was scared of a great many things _surrounding_ Jamie. She was certainly scared _for_ him, for his recovery, for any potential setbacks or bumps in the road. She was scared to see him struggle or suffer any more than he already had. 

She was scared — bloody _terrified_ — of the inevitable confession. Scared of the betrayal that would contort his face when she finally told him the truth. Scared of her guilt in the wake of it, of what it would do to her. She was scared of the pain, the heartbreak — both his and hers. 

She was scared of what she felt for him. What he felt for her. 

If she were being honest with herself, that scared her most of all. 

But she wasn’t scared of Jamie. Never. 

To prove it, she crossed the room and eased herself down onto the bed beside him — close, but not touching — her arms still wound protectively around herself. Jamie watched her closely as he shifted his weight to turn to face her, careful to maintain the distance she’d established. An acknowledgment flashed between their eyes in the dim, grainy yellow light from the window as Claire adjusted her own stance to mirror his, so that they both angled in slightly, facing one another.

A silent compromise; an understanding.  

Claire took a deep breath and released it in a controlled stream, trying to ease some of the tension in her chest. This was good. This was off to a good start. 

Fighting against the almost overwhelming urge to take his hand — afraid to send mixed signals while she let him down gently — Claire held his eyes instead as she spoke, and prayed it would be enough. 

“I’m not scared of you, Jamie,” she said again, her voice little more than a whisper. “I’m... scared of what this might cost me.”

The truth, and a profound one. She made sure he saw that in her face. His response was immediate; a tightening around the eyes and in his throat, the palpable urge to reassure her so strong it visibly pained him to remain silent. His fingers twitched toward hers, but then he clenched them into a fist, as if remembering himself. 

Claire swallowed hard, hating herself just a little for the bait and switch from the visceral truth into the facade, the excuse meant to preserve them both. She dropped her gaze, unable to look at him as she told him another truth, but not the _reason_. 

“We… we can’t do this, Jamie,” she breathed. “There are… codes of conduct, documents I signed when I hired in. If the Board of Ethics found out, I could be disciplined. Fired. And I… I can’t lose this job, Jamie. I can’t. I don’t have a lot of good things going for me in my life right now, but being a nurse, helping people, it gives me a purpose, and I—”

Whatever self-restraint Jamie had left, it dissolved entirely at the raw emotion in her voice. His hand unfurled from its fist and wrapped around her upper arm, warm and steady and firm against her skin. “Jesus, Claire,” he rasped, eyes wide, shaking his head. “I’d never want — Christ, ye dinna have to explain that to me.” 

“Of course I do,” Claire whispered fiercely, easing one of her own hands up to grip his against her arm. “You deserve to know why I won’t — why we can’t—”

He was still shaking his head. “I assumed as much, Claire. I didna ken the rules exactly, but I’m no’ a complete eejit. I had a feeling ‘twasn’t exactly encouraged for nurses and patients tae…” Neither of them seemed willing to say the words aloud; neither of them needed to. He dropped his gaze from hers, throat bobbing in a swallow. When he spoke again, his voice was a hoarse murmur, barely audible over the low hum of the heating vent. “It’s why I didna kiss ye earlier, even though I wanted to. Christ, I wanted—” He bit his lip as he trailed off, and she was certain if it were lighter, she’d see a blush creep up his neck. Her own cheeks were flaming, and she felt her heartbeat pounding in each of her pulse points. 

Jamie let his hand drop from her arm, twining his fingers together as he wet his lips. “Ye were born to do this, Claire. To be a nurse, to heal people. I’d never do anything tae jeopardize that, to… to hurt ye, to risk yer career.” His eyes finally dragged up to meet hers again. “Never. Ye have my word.”

The telltale, prickling burn started at the corners of Claire’s eyes, and she blinked twice to clear it, reminding herself sternly that this was exactly the outcome she wanted. Pressing her lips into a trembling smile, she lifted a hand between them and silently offered him the crook of her pinky. 

Jamie’s features softened at the gesture, a weak smile touching his own mouth as he twined his little finger with hers. 

They both held on perhaps a few moments longer than strictly necessary before letting their hands fall apart. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _A/N: The Nursing Code of Conduct cited in this chapter is the one actually implemented at Massachusetts General Hospital, where Claire is supposed to work. All due credit for that text in italics to the American Nurses Association!_


	16. 48 Hours

“So we’re…” he’d asked hesitantly, once Claire had finished charting his vitals and started to leave. “We’re alright, then?”

She’d smiled at him softly, resting her head on the corner of his door. “Yes. We’re alright, Jamie.” 

He’d finally been able to get a bit of sleep after that.

The first rays of a brilliant pink sunrise were bleeding across the skyline when he floated back up to the surface of consciousness. Though she was near-silent as she padded across the room, Jamie’s mind seemed to rouse instinctively any time Claire was near. He cracked sleep-blurred eyes, watching her lower the shade over his window with a silver beaded chain. He didn’t make a sound, but she stiffened the moment he was awake, turning to glance at him over her shoulder. 

“Sorry.” She winced. “Just didn’t want the sun to wake you.”

Jamie closed his eyes again with a faint, sleepy smile. “That’s kind of ye, Sassenach,” he mumbled. He’d sunk halfway unconscious again before he suddenly jolted awake as if a hook had caught him in the gut and _tugged._ His eyes snapped open and found hers, wide with apology. 

 _“Claire,”_ he corrected, biting his bottom lip. “Uh, Nurse Claire? Nurse Beauchamp? What, ah… what should I call ye?” 

She hummed a single-tone laugh, dropping her lashes. For a moment she remained at the window, peering out at the sunrise through the slatted blinds. She seemed to be pondering, so Jamie bit back the slew of words he wanted to say, rerouting his nervous energy into twisting the corner of the fitted sheet.

“You know, I… I’ve grown rather accustomed to ‘Sassenach,’” she said after a time. 

Jamie kept his gaze downturned until he was certain his face wouldn’t betray the palpable, beaming relief that bloomed in his chest. When he finally looked up at her, there was a war raging behind her eyes. Golden irises flickered infinitesimally in a slant of sunlight, and her lips parted as though to speak, but then clamped shut again. She took a breath, her brow creasing a bit. “I don’t want you to feel as though you have to… tiptoe around me. Walk on eggshells.” She shook her head, turning to face him. “That’s not what this is, Jamie.”

He held her gaze, searching for unspoken answers he wasn’t entirely sure she possessed. Perhaps Claire was at just as much of a loss as he was. 

Cracking a wee smile to ease the tension, he quipped, “Just the same, I’ll leave out my grandda’s _feckin’_ line.” It worked; the muscles of her face relaxed, at least momentarily. She shot him a sidelong look, nostrils flaring, lips pursed against a smile. 

“I’d appreciate that.”

The moment of levity bled away quicker than he would have liked, leaving a dull, aching silence between them. 

He wanted so badly to reach for her hand — to quiet her doubts, to reassure her that he could do this; maintain a respectful distance, keep his interactions to a level befitting her profession. And he _had_ established fun, lighthearted relationships with other medical professionals on staff, so he knew what Claire meant: they didn’t need to be cold or distant with one another simply because they couldn’t pursue something deeper. 

But he was entering uncharted territory. Finding that line with Claire — between banter and flirtation, between familiarity and intimacy, between the necessary touch of a nurse and something _more_ — was like balancing on a knifepoint. 

He was playing a high-stakes game, and he didn’t know the rules. 

And judging by the look on her face, neither did Claire. 

Swallowing his nerves, he decided to just go ahead and tell her so, and pray that the truth would ground them both. 

“I dinna ken how any of this works, Claire,” he confessed quietly, raising his good shoulder in a shrug. “I’m makin’ it up as I go. If ye give me guidance I’ll bide by it, but I’ll tell ye now, Sassenach, I’m a terrible mind reader. Just… be honest wi’ me, aye? And I’ll do the same wi’ you.”

Judging by the way Claire’s features softened with relief, that thankfully seemed to be the right thing to say. 

“Agreed,” she said, nodding once. She took a hesitant step toward him, then another. “I think what I’m — what I’m trying to say is…” She pressed her lips together, wet them, and tried her own hand at honesty. “I think there’s room within a nurse-patient relationship for a certain amount of... warmth. Familiarity.” 

“Ye’re saying,” Jamie echoed slowly, never taking his eyes off of her, “that we… might be friends, mebbe?”

Her nod this time was eager, eyes round with mingled trepidation and hope.

A broad smile split Jamie’s face, and as it did, he watched a nervous mirror of it twitch at the corners of Claire’s mouth.  

“I’d like that verra much, Sassenach.”

 

* * *

 

Claire was off the next two nights. 

It was supposed to have been a _three_ -day stretch, but she’d picked up an extra shift for a colleague. She’d considered putting out feelers to see if anyone wanted to let her pick up one of the other nights as well, but stopped herself just shy of pressing _send_ on the email. 

Perhaps the distance would be good. 

She and Jamie had arrived at an understanding — talked through the issue like bloody adults, established boundaries, and were just _fine_. 

But still. 

A couple of days apart, to regain some perspective, couldn’t hurt either of them. She’d come back on Thursday night well-rested, and they would start over fresh with their new, very-professional-but-warm-and-appropriately-amicable relationship. 

That had been the plan, anyway.

Unfortunately, like most of Claire’s plans to date, it had gone immediately and horribly awry. 

She found out rather quickly that her _(naïve, Christ,_ so _naïve)_ expectation of a _‘restful’_ two days off was positively laughable. After tossing and turning for hours in bed, she finally got up and tried to sleep on the couch instead. She’d manage to drift off for about thirty minutes at a time before rolling over to check her phone, and letting out a low, miserable groan when she saw how little time had actually passed. After about five hours of that nonsense, she eventually got up and started pacing the length of her living room, chewing serrated pink teeth marks around the knuckle on her forefinger.

She worried about Jamie. 

She wondered which nurses had been assigned to him on day and night shifts; going down the list of everyone who might potentially be working, she privately judged whether or not she thought they’d do an adequate enough job of caring for him. There were a handful of truly excellent nurses, a majority of really good ones, a few mediocre, and one or two who were absolute rubbish and would make a proper mess of things. Naturally, she was _certain_ the worst of the lot would be assigned to Jamie. 

What if they didn’t remember that he needed his 01:15 dose of as-needed flexeril, whether he woke up to ask for it or not? If he didn’t get it, he’d have terrible spasms that would wake him out of a dead sleep long before vitals time, and then it was an uphill battle trying to get his pain back under control, and if he didn’t get his proper rest then he’d do terribly with his PT in the morning, and he wanted _so badly_ to get up and walking in the next few days…

She wound up falling asleep sitting up on the stool at her breakfast bar, her cheek pressed to the black-speckled granite, an empty bottle of wine tipped over beside her.  

The next day was worse. 

 _You’re a control freak_ , she berated herself viciously, two hours into her morning — raccoon-eyed, hair a straggly mess, pacing her kitchen (a change of scenery, at least) and stress eating white cheddar popcorn straight from the bag. _You’re an absolute nutter. He’s fine. He’s in great hands. Get out of the goddamn house and go_ do something with your life _that does not revolve around James bloody Fraser._

And so she went to Target _(lingered in the toiletries aisle for ten minutes, picking up men’s hygiene items and setting them back down again)_ , Whole Foods _(stared at the fresh produce and worried that he wasn’t getting enough vitamins in his diet)_ , Old Navy _(touched a pair of soft plaid flannel pajama bottoms and wondered if he had something similar; he was at the point where he could start wearing his own clothes again soon…)_. 

She lasted until two P.M. before she called the charge nurse to ask if there had been any call-ins, or if they were short-staffed that night? Tried to swallow down her disappointment when he assured her that they were actually well-staffed for once, but thanks for asking. 

She _did_ , thank God, manage to suppress the absolutely ridiculous notion of stopping by the unit on the pretense of having left something in the locker room. 

But she considered it. 

Those forty-eight hours were the longest of her life. 

By 5:52 P.M. on Thursday, she was a haggard, exhausted, hung-over _wreck_ , and still she jogged the two blocks to the hospital. She arrived a full hour early for her shift; the assignment list wasn’t even posted yet, but she grabbed a report sheet and dove headlong into Jamie’s chart on the computer, scouring his notes, orders, assessments, and medication administration records. _Thank God in Heaven_ , Katie S. had been there for both day shifts; she knew him, took good care of him. And the first night Claire had been gone, his night shift nurse had been Mary Hawkins _(she winced at that, knowing the history there, but Jamie seemed to have genuinely forgiven Mary for her newbie mistake)_. The second night, it had been Gillian.

And speak of the devil...

“Mornin,’ sunshine,” her friend sing-songed, plopping down unceremoniously into the desk chair beside her. Gillian gave Claire a once-over as she took a chug from her thermos of coffee, well-plucked red eyebrows disappearing beneath her fringe. “Jesus, Claire, ye look like hell. Did ye have a party and no’ invite me?”

“No,” Claire moaned, laying her head down on the desk. “I couldn’t sleep, so I had a date with a bottle of wine.”

“Been there, hen.” Gill reached over to give her hair a sympathetic pat. “Night shift’s the feckin’ worst. Oh! I brought a pound of that good Ethiopian roast in wi’ me tonight though. I’ll put a pot on once I get report.” 

“Thanks, love. I’m going to need it.”

“Aye, me too. I’ve got yer wee boyfriend back again tonight.”

Claire blinked. Once, twice. Lifting her head up from the desk, she squinted at her friend in confusion. “What?”

Gill waggled her eyebrows. “Ye did a bonny job wi’ his hair, by the way. He’s even prettier now ye can actually see his face.”

Claire was still struggling to process. She opened and closed her mouth, her brow furrowed. “Thanks. Um. But. I just— I thought—” She gave a little shake of her head in a vain attempt to clear it. “No, of course. He was your patient last night. I don’t know why I thought...”

The bald-faced smirk that stretched across Gillian’s face made Claire burn pink. “Och, weel, ye canna be a Scot-hog every night, can ye, hen? Unless...” She leaned forward, holding her chin in her hand, her eyebrows quirked in absolute glee. “Unless there’s any particular _reason_ ye wanted him back?” 

Claire rolled her eyes and tilted her jaw in her best approximation of indifference. “Nope. All yours, love. Have at.” She slapped her open palms down on her thighs, then launched to her feet. “I should probably go see what my _actual_ assignment is, rather than sitting here guessing.”

She’d made it exactly three steps toward the assignment board before her friend’s voice stopped her in her tracks. “Claire...”

She went perfectly still, shoulders tensed, fighting the irrational urge to cry. 

For once, Gillian’s voice was uncharacteristically devoid of humor.

“He missed ye, too.”


	17. Traditions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _A/N: Sorry for the relatively long wait in getting this posted, friends! It's the longest chapter to date, by far the most emotional (at least I think so), but I'd also venture to say it's my favorite of the story thus far. I hope you enjoy it! Um, but I've been told by my betas to pass on that you might, uhh, you might want to grab a drink before you settle in to read..._

Claire had an exceptionally busy assignment that night. 

In retrospect, she was glad for it. She was in her element, her body and mind thoroughly engaged in nurse mode _(and therefore not straying — or at least not_ as often _— to the pair of redheaded Scots down the hall)_. Between a late discharge, two back-to-back admissions, a patient with poorly controlled post-op pain, a leaking colostomy bag, and a pleasantly confused little old lady who repeatedly mistook her call button for the telly volume control, Claire didn’t even sit down to chart until just past one in the morning. 

An hour later, her bleary eyes scanned the screen one last time before she dropped her face into her hands with a sigh. She could feel herself disengaging, losing steam fast. Her head was throbbing, her stomach growling, her bladder stretched so full it ached. As a bonus, every time she swallowed she felt the ominous, vaguely scratchy sensation of oncoming sickness. 

And no wonder. She couldn’t remember all the tiers of Maslow’s bloody Hierarchy, but was fairly confident she’d been neglecting even the most basic of them for days. She needed sleep, water, food. A bathroom break. More sleep.  

 _Coffee?_ her mind begged in the alternative. 

The mere suggestion compelled Claire to her feet amidst the creaking, popping protests of weary joints. Scrubbing a hand over her face, she slumped down the corridor towards the lounge, where the promise of Gillian’s good Ethiopian roast awaited her.

Of course, she never made it that far. 

She might have been able to scrounge up the willpower to keep walking if his room had been dark. At least, that’s what she told herself. 

But it wasn’t. 

The rapid, colorful flicker of lights across his window made her miss a step, her brows knitting in contemplation. 

Jamie didn’t watch telly in the middle of the night. Not ever.

Not unless…

_Unless he wants you to know he’s awake?_

The thought hadn’t even fully formed before she huffed out a derisive snort, shaking her head at her own idiocy. _Jesus H. Christ_ , she was certifiable. Absolutely mental. 

… and yet...

She held her breath as she closed the few steps to his door, tucking herself off to one side where he couldn’t see her. She stood there for a moment — back braced to the wall, eyes closed, listening to the muffled sounds coming from the speakers. 

_“Let’s take a look at the living room.”_

_“It’s a little bit small. I’m just a little concerned that this may be… maybe too narrow? I’m not sure if this is spacious enough.”_

_“This house is about 2,400 square feet, so seeing these really tight living spaces, that just is a bit of a conundrum for me because that’s really where I want to put the square footage.”_

Claire released her breath in a gust, her lower lip caught between her teeth in a futile attempt to bite back the smile blooming across her face. 

 _HGTV._ It _was_ for her. She wasn’t mental; she wasn’t over-analyzing _(or, rather, she_ was _, but there was some consolation in knowing she’d been right)._

She pushed the door open with a light click, just far enough to peer through. Jamie turned his head immediately, anticipation melting into a heartstopping smile as his eyes found hers.

“Just popping my head in to say hello,” she whispered needlessly; he clearly wasn’t asleep. 

“Hello, Sassenach.” Jamie’s smile deepened until the dimples showed in his cheeks. “Did ye have a good few days off?”

She shrugged. “Oh, fine. Ran some errands, nothing exciting. How are you holding up?”

“Good. Fine.” 

“Good, that’s good. Glad to hear it.”

They both nodded silently, awkwardly for a moment. Jamie drew in a breath to speak at the same moment Claire blurted, “Well, I shouldn’t keep you, I—”

“No! No, not at all,” he stammered as she began to withdraw. Claire paused, hiding her smile behind the edge of the door as Jamie continued hastily, “I told ye, my sleep schedule’s broken. I’m always awake this time o’ night. Took yer wee suggestion about the _House Hunters_ tae keep myself occupied, but… I’m always grateful for yer company, Claire.” A deep flush had crept up his neck and into his cheeks as he spoke, his expression growing increasingly sheepish. “If ye have the time.”

Claire glanced over her shoulder, then back at him. “You know, actually, I… was just headed for a coffee break.”

“Ah.” Jamie dropped his lashes, his mouth twitching into a tepid smile that did nothing to hide his disappointment. 

“No!” Claire fumbled to explain herself. “No, what I meant is, I could — I _do_ have time. Just now.”

Blue eyes snapped up to hers again as understanding dawned. “Oh.” He choked out a laugh, the blush spreading all the way to the tips of his ears. “Oh! Sorry, I didn’t — I’m with ye now. Why don’t, ah… why don’t ye go fetch yer coffee and bring it back here, then? I dinna mind.”

“Would you like one?” The offer spilled out of her before she had a chance to think it through. Wincing, she tapped her temple in a gesture of absentmindedness as he began to take a breath to answer her. “God, sorry. Clearly _I_ need the coffee. It’s the middle of the bloody night.”  

“Nah, a coffee sounds braw, actually. I’ll be up anyway. Been catchin’ wee naps during the day between physical therapy, so I’m no’ tired just now.”

She frowned at him, not overly pleased with the idea. He was supposed to be getting his rest, not staying up all hours of the night on a caffeine buzz. Jamie shrugged in the direction of the television, giving her a lopsided smile that weakened the fault lines of her resolve. “Besides, I’m invested now. Will they pick the auld fixer-upper that’s all rotted out wi’ mold and asbestos, or the verra posh new construction that’s way over-budget? Cannae sleep ‘til I find out.” 

Claire leaned against the doorjamb, her eyebrows and mouth quirked in amusement. “I could just tell you, you know. I’ve seen this one before.”

“Och.” He scrunched his nose at her. “Where’s the fun in that, Sassenach?”

She stared him down for another long moment, and he stared right back — eyes glittering, a little smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Relenting with a sigh, she began to walk off, asking over her shoulder, “How do you take it?”

“Black is fine, thank ye.”

“Easy enough.”

And it was. 

It shouldn’t have been. She hadn’t ever intended it to become a _thing_ — the middle-of-the-night check in, the styrofoam coffee cups cradled loosely in warm hands, the dim background noise and flickering lights from _House Hunters_ , the fluid banter interwoven with quiet, meandering conversations. 

But finding their footing — navigating this new, uncertain terrain as the dust settled between them — _was_ easy. Startlingly so. Being with him like this, eyes meeting in the stillness of the night, talking at length about nothing of consequence, was perhaps the easiest thing she’d ever done. 

And so, the next night, when Jamie’s TV was on again just after 2 A.M., Claire fetched two coffees, smiling absently to herself.

And again the night after that.

And the one after that… 

 

* * *

 

“You’re quiet tonight.”

Jamie glanced up from his coffee to find golden eyes studying him over the rim of a matching styrofoam cup. He made a noncommittal grunt as he took a sip, taking the time to swirl it around his mouth before he swallowed. 

“Am I?” he muttered, knowing fine well he was. Claire didn’t bother to dignify that with a response. He could feel her watching him, trying to get a read on him. She’d been doing it all night. 

It had been a relief, seeing her at shift change, finally having her assigned back to him again. Gillian _(God love her)_ was a fine nurse, and her witty antics kept him laughing. But Jamie didn’t feel much like laughing that night. 

He remained silent for a time, staring into his cup, absently smearing a drip around the rim with his thumb. When he did speak, his voice was hoarse, barely audible over the drone of the television. “I’m sorry, lass. Dinna mean to be such poor company.”

He heard the grate of the wheels on Claire’s stool as she maneuvered herself closer to the edge of the bed. “You’re not,” she assured him, just as quietly. The comforting weight of her hand settled over the blanket on his knee, and his own hand slid down to cover hers, almost a reflex. 

He felt her hesitation, heard the catch in her breathing as she struggled to find the right words. “I know... sometimes... it can be helpful to sit in silence for awhile,” she continued, her thumb sweeping in slow, broad arcs over the bend of his knee. “So I’m happy to just be here with you, if that’s what you need.” She paused, swallowed audibly, and took in a wavering breath. “But if you ever want to talk, I’ve... been told I’m a good listener.” 

Jamie tried to smile for her, but managed only a tic at the corner of his mouth. “Aye,” he huffed, curling his fingers into the warm flesh of her palm. “Aye, ye are.”

Still, he fell silent again, reluctant to start talking for fear that he wouldn’t be able to hold back once he began. The lass was heartbreakingly pale. Tired. Thin. Whatever burdens she carried — whatever the source of the sadness etched into every line of her face — he couldn’t stand the idea of making it worse, of asking her to bear his pain in addition to her own.

It wasn’t until he felt the impossibly gentle brush of Claire’s fingertips against his jaw that the confession slipped out of him unbidden — eyes closed, breath fluttering into her palm. 

“It’s my mam’s birthday, is all. Would have been.” 

He half-opened bleary eyes, tried to shrug it off and leave it at that. A terse explanation, but hopefully enough to sate her curiosity. “It’s been a long time, it’s, ah, it’s nothin’ new.” He tried to smile again, and was marginally more successful this time. 

Claire’s palm settled against the curve of his cheek, cradling him. Against his better judgment, he dragged his gaze up to hers — saw the ache, the _understanding_ that dulled the brilliant gold of her eyes. 

“How old were you?” she asked, barely a whisper.

Jamie swallowed, wet his lips. “Eight.”

An almost infinitesimal nod, then Claire’s hand slipped from his face. She took the coffee cup from him and set it aside, then eased up to sit on the bed next to him, one leg bent and resting against his. Her small, slender hands enfolded one of his, and they both watched as her fingertips began to trace delicate circles over his wrist, the base of his thumb, the mound of his palm. They were silent for a moment, still but for the slow dance of their fingers. 

At long last, Claire drew in a shaky breath, then admitted on an exhale, “Ten. I was ten.” 

Jamie felt his stomach drop like a stone. “Ye lost yer mother too?”

He saw only a flash — a glimpse of the agony raging behind her eyes — before she dropped her lashes, shielding it from him. 

“And my father.” She pursed her lips and shrugged in a very poor attempt at nonchalance. “Car accident.” 

Jamie stared at her intently, unblinking; silently begging her to say more, to let him share this with her. He rearranged his fingers to twine through hers, and the half-moon of her thumbnail carved into the side of his hand, gripping him hard. She took a breath, opened her mouth, and shut it again, as if trying to decide how much to tell him. “I was in the back seat. We, um... we went off a bridge. I got out. They didn’t. So.” 

“Christ, Claire.”

She shrugged again, wiping a tear on her shoulder the moment it slipped down her cheek. “It was a long time ago for me, too.” She squeezed his hand and slowly brought her wet, strained eyes up to his. “But I… I do understand, Jamie.”

His heart stammered in his chest before wrenching painfully back into rhythm. _Ah dhia,_ he didn’t want her to understand; didn’t want to see the images that flashed before his eyes with all the clarity of a film he’d seen over and over again, only this time featuring a delicate curly-haired lass.

_His tiny Sassenach holding a relative’s hand, her chin dimpled and quivering, tears rolling down her soft pink cheeks as she watched two caskets lowered into the ground._

_Sitting quiet and glassy-eyed at the back of a classroom, making a Father’s Day craft for an uncle or cousin or grandfather._

_Brushing her teeth and washing her face all on her own because her mam wasn’t there to remind her, then curling up under a quilt with a stuffed animal and putting herself to bed._

Jesus Christ, he couldn’t bear it. 

He shook his head fiercely, as though by sheer force of will he might take this from her, make it not so. The instinct to hold her, shield her, wrap her in the protection of his larger body blazed so hot in his chest he thought it would scorch the lining of his lungs. Before he could check the impulse, his hand had slipped around her and pressed into the valley between her shoulder blades, drawing her tight against him. 

It was only with the hitch in Claire’s breathing that reality came crashing down on him like an overturned bucket of ice water. For a fleeting, terrifying moment, he thought she’d pull away, reprimand him for stepping dangerously close to the line they’d drawn in the sand. 

But another three staccato heartbeats stuttered in his chest, and then Claire went limp, boneless and trembling in his arms. She turned into him, released her breath in a shuddering exhale as she tucked her face into his neck, and Jamie made a soft, tender sound in his throat, bringing a hand up to cup the back of her head. He drew his cheek in a half circle against hers before nuzzling into her curls, breathing in the lilac and vanilla of her shampoo, the intoxicating scent of _Claire_ just beneath it.  

It was right. God help him, this was _right_. She fit there, _just there_ , tucked against him, and he into her — not as his nurse, not as his friend, not even as something so simple as a lover, but as a piece of him he hadn’t even realized he’d been missing. The relief of it cooled the fiery ache in his chest, even as he shook his head and breathed _“I’m sorry”_ against the shell of her ear. 

“For you, too,” she whispered, her breath warming the hollow between his collarbones. 

Still haunted by the images of the lonely wee lass he imagined her to be, Jamie twisted a dark brown ringlet around his finger, staring over her shoulder with glassy, pained eyes. He couldn’t help but wonder if she could picture him, too; if Claire could envision a sad-eyed, red-haired young lad as easily as he saw the wee golden-eyed beauty. 

By the way she nestled closer, he thought perhaps she could.

“Tell me about her,” she whispered several minutes later, one hand drifting idly over the cap of his shoulder, her thumb tracing circles over a bony prominence. “What do you remember?”

Jamie’s deep, rib-creaking sigh lifted her head to brush against his lips before falling again on the exhale. He closed his eyes, just barely suppressing the urge to do it again so he could hold his breath and kiss her hair with lingering purpose. Instead, he nuzzled into her curls one last time, breathing her in, and then laid his cheek on the crown of her head. He was quiet for a moment, letting himself draw strength from her to delve into the parts of his memory better left untouched.

“Not as much as I’d like,” he admitted, in such a thin whisper he wasn’t sure she could hear him. “I remember she was… bonny. Kind. Soft. She smelled nice.” 

Claire’s fingertips trailed slowly down from his shoulder to rest over his heart, and she nodded faintly against his neck, encouraging him to go on.

“She, ah… she was a terrible cook, but she could brown mince. So we ate a lot of spaghetti, ken, a lot of tacos. I realize that’s a strange thing to remember, but…”

He felt her smile. “No, not at all. So did you get sick of them, then?”

“Nah. What bairn gets sick of tacos?” 

“True.” 

They both made hums of amusement and then fell quiet again, pensive. He began to stroke his fingers through her hair as the memories spilled out of him like water from a broken dam.

“She was, um… she was a braw artist. She was always sketchin’ things everywhere. Napkins, the corners of papers, on this wee chalkboard we had in the kitchen. She painted, too. Made her own jewelry, ceramics. And she, ah...” He leaned over just far enough to get the top drawer of his bedside stand open with the tips of his fingers, and plucked the leather-bound photo album from inside it. “She loved photography.”

He felt a hollow ache behind his breastbone when Claire slipped from his arms and sat up to study the album. It took every ounce of restraint he possessed not to draw her back to him, cuddle her close, curl up with her under the covers and whisper a narrative of each picture into her hair; to explain each wee fragment of his life until she knew him — every part of him, down to his roots, his marrow. 

 _Time enough for that later_ , he reminded himself. A lifetime, if he had any say in the matter. 

But for now, he’d made a promise.

So he curled his fingers into the bedding, holding her with his eyes alone as she looked to him for permission to open the album. He gave her a quick nod, and then watched her — every miniscule movement of her beautiful glass face — as she studied the 5x7 impressions of all that he came from, all that he’d been and still was, all that was most precious to him in the world.

Her eyes were like melting caramel, a tender smile playing at the corners of her lips as she ran her fingertip over a photograph on the very first page. Jamie didn’t need to look down to know which one it was. Second from the bottom, far right; it was his mam, sitting on the stone bench in her rose garden, the morning sun shining on her red hair. Her eyes were closed, her cheek resting against the peach fuzz of his newborn head. 

“This is her?” Claire murmured. “And you?”

He nodded, his eyes never leaving her face. “Aye,” he whispered.

“Jamie…” The way she said it filled his chest with the radiant warmth of a sunbeam — those two syllables he’d heard a hundred thousand times in his life, but never like _this_. “She was so beautiful.”

He smiled genuinely this time, so it reached all the way to his eyes. “She was.”  

Feeling every beat of his heart like a glowing, steady throb in his chest, he watched her turn each page, paying attention to which pictures caught her attention, which ones made her smile, which ones softened the lines around her eyes or caused a flash of pain to blitz across her face. It was intimate, _vulnerable_ in a way he never could have imagined to let her see this part of him, knowing how deeply it resonated with her, how she understood the importance of these moments in a way only another orphan could.

They were all he had left of his parents now. 

A film of tears gathered along Claire’s lash line when she reached the first picture of his da. He was holding all three of his bairns at once; Willie sitting on his shoulders, Jenny on his hip, and Jamie cradled in a Baby Björn against his chest. 

She flipped that page quickly, her breath shaking and her eyes pained.

He wanted to ask, but didn’t.

Instead, he took her hand. 

A steadying breath, a squeeze, and she moved on, examining a full four-page spread of photos from his first Christmas and Boxing Day: Jamie and his siblings dressed up in their Sunday best for Christmas Eve Mass; baking cookies and making a flour-and-frosting splattered disaster zone of the kitchen; bundled up like wee penguins playing out in the snow; chopping down and decorating a tree; in footie pyjamas, opening a truly obscene amount of presents; his siblings smiling goofily as they stuck bows on his seven-months-old-and-still-completely-bald head.

Claire was smiling again when she glanced up from that last picture. “Your family really went all out for Christmas, didn’t they?”

“Och, ye have _no_ idea.” Jamie rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t help the wistful smile that twitched at the corner of his mouth. “My mam was a total nutter for Christmas. She’d seriously start decorating the day after Samhain — uh, _Halloween_. Drove my da crazy. Christmas music blasting all hours of the day and night. We, uh, we had these giant blow-up snowmen that went out on the front lawn, and this full life-size reindeer set for the top of the barn. Mam would go out and string up lights on literally _every_ tree and building on the whole property, and then she’d um, she’d go ‘round and put these wee red and green bows on all the sheep—” Claire threw her head back laughing, and Jamie cracked a grin. “Ye think I’m kidding?! She did! It was, um…” He started laughing too _(Christ, his Sassenach’s laugh was contagious)_ , and he shook his head, biting his bottom lip. “It was somethin’ else.”

“It sounds like it.” After a moment, their joint laughter dwindled to smiling hums, and Claire readjusted her hand in his, so that they were palm to palm, her fingers wrapping around his. “It sounds wonderful, Jamie,” she said softly, the old familiar sadness bleeding through her smile.

He felt the smile drain from his own face as the hollow ache of reality caught up with him; the remembrance of a childhood ended abruptly and tragically, and the many years of somber, quiet Christmases at Lallybroch without his mam there to brighten them. Tucking the glittering whimsy of his memories carefully back into the recesses of his heart, Jamie dropped his lashes, watching his thumb drift back and forth over the side of Claire’s hand.

“We have this tradition.” His voice was a hoarse murmur, pitched low enough that she wouldn’t hear the strain. “On her birthday, we um… we always go decorate her grave. We have this, ah, this god-awful sequined tree skirt that we wrap around the headstone, and we string up lights and tinsel and put up a wee wreath. Used to bring a popcorn and cranberry strand too, but the birds always got to it.” 

Jamie smiled briefly, let out a huff of a laugh before his face fell again. Claire leaned forward to rest her head on his shoulder, and he closed his eyes, trying very hard to keep his voice steady.

“When we were bairns, we’d, ah, we’d bring biscuits and thermoses of hot cocoa, and Da would bring a flask of her favorite whisky, and we’d sit together and just… just talk about her, ye ken? Tell stories. Willie and Jen always had so many more’n I did, just cause they’d had her longer. We didna really… we didna talk about her much otherwise. So I always loved her birthday, cos I’d… I’d _learn_ something new every time, something I didna ken about her. And my da, he was… he was quiet those first few years, and even worse after Willie died. But he, ah… at some point Jenny ran out of things she remembered, ye ken, and… and so he started tellin’ us things. From before we were born, or from when we were too young to remember. He’d pick one story for each of us, for Jen and me, every year, somethin’ we’d never heard before.”

He could feel it, a single tear quivering on his lashes, waiting to spill. He swallowed hard, filled his aching lungs with air a few times, and still, his voice came out grated and raw. “Canna help but wonder what he would have told me today, ye ken? Or next year, or the year after that. It just, ah… it just hit me, I suppose, that I’ll never learn anything else about her. It was like she wasn’t… she wasn’t truly gone, because I was still getting to know her. But now, it’s just… it’s done now. She’s gone. They both are.”

He wasn’t sure when Claire had started crying, but suddenly he heard her, felt her whole body clutch with a sob. Surprise yielded quickly to concern, and he turned into her, wrapping her tight, his own sadness temporarily drowned in the need to ease hers.

“Shh, shh, _a nighean,_ dinna cry…”

She shook her head fiercely against his neck, sucked in a gasp that stuttered into a sob. “I’m sorry,” she choked. “Jamie, I’m so — I’m _so_ _sorry_ , I…”

His fingers stroked through her hair, and he pressed a kiss to the top of her head before he could catch himself, seeking desperately to comfort her. On instinct he began to sway her back and forth, rubbing her back. He had vague memories of being rocked himself when he was a lad, cradled against his mother’s breast, and later Jenny’s, when she was gone. They both always said the same thing to him, and so he whispered it into the crown of Claire’s head. 

“Shh, lay your head, _mo chridhe_ , lay your head awhile. I’ve got ye.” 

When that only made her cry harder, he shifted her closer in his arms, and began murmuring to her in the _Gàidhlig_ , letting the lilting tone soothe her. Under the careful veil of a language she didn’t understand, he poured out his heart to her, praying that the meaning would reach her somehow, even if the words were lost.

She quieted after a time, snuffling and shaking, wiping her eyes and nose on the shoulder of his gown. When she lifted her head, her eyes were swollen and red-rimmed, still shining with pain and apology even as she tried to laugh off her own emotional outburst. 

“Sorry, I… I’ll have to get you a clean gown,” she muttered. 

“It’s alright,” he soothed, reaching up to brush away a curl that was plastered to her face. He held her gaze long enough for her to get the deeper message: she was safe with him; her hurts were safe, her vulnerability was safe.

She nodded faintly after a moment, her eyes still locked on his, and he returned it. 

When she blinked, he saw the shutters close; saw the precise moment that she withdrew into herself, back into nurse mode. 

“I’d better, ah, I’d better wash my face and go check on my other patients. I think I’ve blown through my coffee break and lunch hour both.”

“Aye, of course,” he said, squaring his jaw and letting his hand slip away from her.

  

* * *

 

His Sassenach was off the next night. 

She’d told him when she left that morning, her eyes still faintly puffy, her lips drawn just a little too tight. She would be off one day, and then she would be back for a stretch after that.

He’d nodded, wished her a nice night off. Professional, courteous. The words were right, even if their gazes lingered a few seconds too long, holding too much knowledge, too much pain for the boundaries they were both trying and failing to maintain.  

He worked hard with PT that day, throwing himself into the physical labor as if he could somehow transfer the ache from his chest to his tired, shaking muscles. 

He was out like a light, sound asleep five minutes after Lisa and Shariah left him at 6 P.M.

So he wasn’t entirely sure when she’d come. 

When he woke, it was pitch dark beyond his window, but his room was cast in a warm, dim golden glow. Squinting in confusion, he lifted his head from the pillow to find its source. 

His breath hitched when he did. 

On the bedside table behind him sat a slender white picture frame. His mother smiled serenely within its borders, cradling him in her rose garden. 

The frame was centered on a tiny, apartment-sized tree skirt, encircled by a wreath and several flickering electric tea candles. 

A letter was tucked up beneath it, and Jamie’s hand shook as he reached for it and carefully unfolded it.

_I know it’s not the same, but it’s tradition, after all._

_You did tell stories about her today, Jamie. I just brought the decorations, and the cocoa and biscuits (in your top drawer. I hope you like chocolate chip?)_

_C_

_P.S. In case you’re still hungry, I’m having tacos delivered to your room during House Hunters tonight. We can discuss the abominable flooring choices (naturally, I’ve seen this one) when I see you tomorrow._

_P.S.S. It’s not my place, I realize, but I will say I wish very much that I had siblings who could share memories of my parents with me. You have every right to be angry with your sister, but perhaps you’d consider setting aside your differences just for today? She’s missing them, too._

Jamie closed his eyes on tears, holding the paper to his heart. 

Opened them several minutes later, and read it again.

Picked up his mobile, and let his thumb hover, trembling, over the first number on his Favorite Contacts.

Swallowed hard before pressing send. 

It was just after one in the morning in Scotland, but she answered on the first ring.

“Jamie?”

His voice wavered and cracked over the two words he hadn’t thought he’d ever say again. 

“Hi Jen…”


	18. The Crash

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _A/N: Another long wait, but hopefully worth it, friends! THIS is now officially the longest chapter of Atonement, whew. Buckle in. And um, again with the alcohol you should probably grab before you start. Like maybe the whole bottle? Fair warning._

“God, I hate subway tile.”

“So ye said.”

“Well, I do! It reminds me of something you’d see in a locker room.” 

“Or, ye ken… a subway.”

“Right. Still nothing I want in my _kitchen.”_

“That’s a nice color though, no?”

“Oh, I love the color! If they’d done it in herringbone we’d be in business.”

Claire caught Jamie smiling at her out of the corner of her eye, but by the time she turned to look, he was staring back at the television again, his expression carefully neutral.

She hid her own smile by taking a long sip of coffee. 

At the first commercial break, Jamie leaned over to rummage in his top drawer, and righted himself a few seconds later, clutching a tangerine and the ziplock bag of chocolate chip cookies she’d brought for him the night before _(with at least half of them missing already)._

He tossed her the bag, and Claire immediately slung it back over onto the bed next to him. 

“I made those for _you,_ silly.”

“Aye, so they’re mine to share wi’ whoever I want,” he insisted, flinging the ziplock right back into her lap as he set about peeling his tangerine. “Have a few, Sassenach. They’re delicious.”

“That’s sweet of you, Jamie, but I’m f—”

“Please? I dinna feel right stuffin’ my gob in front of ye unless you have some too.”

She raised her eyebrows. “You eat in front of your other nurses all the time.”

“Aye,” Jamie agreed, his eyes flicking briefly to hers, then back to the tangerine. “But ye’re more than…” He trailed off, swallowed. His thumb ran a full circuit around the inside of the peel before he added quietly, “We’re friends too, aye?”

She should have been used to it by now: the simultaneous flutter of butterflies in her belly and the knife-twist of guilt to her chest. 

But she wasn’t. She wasn’t sure she would ever be.  

“Yes,” she agreed hoarsely. With a slow nod, she opened the ziplock and took a cookie. “We are.” 

When she looked back up to hand him the bag, Jamie’s eyes were warm, almost glowing with tenderness. He nodded once in return, and wordlessly passed her half of his tangerine. She accepted without protest this time. 

They nibbled and sipped in silence for awhile, unsure of what to say after that. The commercials ended and _House Hunters_ resumed, but neither of them were paying attention any more; they were attuned to one another — acutely aware of every subtle movement, every change in their breathing, every shift of the bed sheets or stool wheels.

Jamie was the first to drop any pretense of watching the show. Draining the last of his coffee, he turned down the volume and angled himself to face her. “I, ah… I called Jenny last night.”

Claire went very still, barely breathing. 

It had been a risk, making such a bold suggestion. Claire-the-nurse would never have been so presumptuous, gotten so deeply involved in a patient’s private family affairs. But Claire-his-fellow-orphan, Claire-his-confidant, Claire-his- _friend_ had finally convinced herself to pen that second postscript, chewing her lip the whole time. It was clear to her what Jamie’s family meant to him — how close they were, how deep their ties bound them to one another. He’d lost so many loved ones already, and the thought of him remaining painfully distant from his sister over a rift Claire was partially responsible for — over a _death_ she was partially responsible for… 

She’d felt she had to do something, say _something_. Nudge him towards reconciliation, and pray that he wouldn’t be angry with her for overstepping. 

There wasn’t any anger in his face as he spun the empty coffee cup in his hands, carving a chevron pattern into the styrofoam with his thumbnail. Still, Claire didn’t take a full breath until he continued, “We talked. For a… a long time. Hours. About Mam, Da. About the accident, about me bein’ here. I’m still — I’m still _angry_ wi’ her, ken. I’m feckin’ _pissed_ that she didna tell me. I had a right to know, and it wasna her damn place to choose for me. But…” 

He passed a hand over his face and sighed, deflating a bit. “I ken why she did it. Jen’s lost everyone but me now. And she… she thought news like that could kill me, when I was in such bad shape. So I get it. Dinna like it, but I get it. So.” He shrugged, and let his hand drop into his lap. “We’re alright now. I told her I’d call her again in the morning.”

Claire looked up at him then, her eyes misty and wide with hope. For a fleeting moment — just a millisecond — the thought occurred to her that if he could forgive Jenny for keeping such a terrible secret, maybe…

But then the millisecond passed, and the cold, hollow ache of reality settled back into her bones. 

No. It wasn’t the same thing.

Claire wasn’t Jenny; she wasn’t blood. Jamie didn’t have any history with her, any reason to dig deep for forgiveness.

And her own secret was so much worse. 

She’d known all along that she was going to lose him. There was no help for it. The day was coming, and soon _(he was improving steadily, making leaps and bounds in his recovery every day)_ , when she would have to watch his adoration, kindness, and understanding harden into pain, then fury, and finally, betrayal. 

Loathing.

And she would deserve it. The outrage, the vitriol. Whatever scalding words he hurled at her, she would deserve them, and so much worse. 

There would be no postscript, no second-chance phone call, no reconciliation for her. 

Once she told him, it would be over. 

And she would be alone again.

Claire pulled her heels up onto the stool and tucked her knees against her chest, curling in on herself. “I’m glad, Jamie,” she whispered, then took several long, deep drinks of her coffee until she’d swallowed the tight ache in the back of her throat.

She should have known better than to think he wouldn’t notice. 

Her eyes slipped shut when she felt his fingertips in her hair, gently brushing aside the curtain of dark curls she was trying to hide behind. 

“I have you to thank for that,” he murmured faintly, tucking a ringlet behind her ear, then tracing the shell with the edge of his thumb. “I would ha’ let my own stubborn pride ruin everything. But… _yer words_ made me recognize what I couldna see on my own, Claire.” 

His touch was so delicate, his voice so soft, that she felt a shiver building at the base of her spine, felt her eyes flood behind their closed lids. She sat up straighter, blinked her eyes open before the moisture could gather on her lashes, and drew in a slow, wavering breath to steady herself. 

“It was like I was…” Jamie continued, his tone gentling even further as he watched her, “I was so caught up in my own grief that it didna ever occur to me that Jenny was hurtin’ for all the same reasons I was. And it doesnae make sense for us to grieve alone. Not when we still have each other.”

Claire nodded once, pursing her lips into an anemic smile. “You’re lucky to have one another,” she whispered. 

“Aye, we are,” he agreed, running his thumb over the back of her ear one last time before shifting his hand down to her shoulder. “Ye said ye… ye dinna have any siblings of yer own? Ye’re an only child?”

“Mhm,” she hummed, tilting her head in a shrug of practiced indifference. She was silent for a moment, pensive, before she continued quietly, “You know, I… I didn’t ever really mind it, growing up. But now that I’m older, now that…” She swallowed, then shrugged again. “It would be nice, I think. To have someone to share those childhood memories with.”

Jamie shifted his weight, angling himself further over on his hip to face her. “Ye have me, Claire,” he whispered, his grip on her shoulder tightening for emphasis. 

She gave him another weak smile, feeling the bottom of her stomach drop out. _Not for long,_ she reminded herself. The thought made her want to shrink away from his touch, desperately try to re-establish some distance. Still, she would never forget the way his expression had tightened in hurt and confusion the last time she’d pulled her hand away from him. Without some sort of explanation, withdrawing seemed only like a punishment to him; made him think he’d done something wrong. She couldn’t do that to him, either.

So she gritted her teeth, feeling her heart ache with each gentle sweep of his thumb over the bony cap of her shoulder. 

“I ken it’s no’ the same thing,” he continued softly. “But for what it’s worth, Sassenach, I’m a good listener, too. And I want tae… tae _know_ about ye. About what it was like for ye, growin’ up. What you were like. Yer parents.” He gave her shoulder another squeeze, and she looked up at him hesitantly. His blue eyes were open, earnest, eager. “Everything.”

She let her breath out in a self-conscious laugh, dropping her lashes. “What, my whole childhood?”

“Yer whole _life,”_ he amended, without the slightest hesitation. “Anything ye ever wanted to tell someone. Ye could tell me, Claire.”

And there it was again: the butterflies, the knife.

She sipped her coffee in silence for what felt a small eternity, staring vacantly at a scuff mark on the linoleum floor.

_You shouldn’t,_ her rational side objected. 

She’d already let him in too deep; allowed him to get too attached to her, and her to him. Every barrier she’d tried to erect, every time she’d tried to distance herself — to avoid him, walk away from him — she’d failed, miserably and repeatedly. And she knew, she _knew_ it would only make it harder for both of them when the truth inevitably came out. All of this — the standing coffee date, the banter, the cookies and tangerines, the sharing of their most treasured memories — it was _pointless_. In a matter of days, this beautiful illusion would shatter, and both of them with it. 

It was perhaps equally pointless to start in again on the endless cycle of _what-ifs,_ but in that moment she couldn’t help but wonder what might have happened had she and Jamie found one another before any of this; had they met under any other circumstances, in any other time or place.

The thought did not escape her that she might have loved him, then.

God, she might have loved him.

_But you don’t,_ she told herself fiercely. _You can’t._

And she felt her heart begin to rip at the seams. 

She’d been alone for such a very, very long time. Twenty years, by that point — most of her life. There had been a handful of moments, few and far between, where she thought perhaps she mightn’t be any more; Frank had probably been her best chance. But after two years together and an overly-indulgent birthday celebration, the desperate, drunken search for a ring _(a commitment; a promise to finally belong to someone)_ was what had gotten her into this whole bloody mess in the first place.

She should have known better; should have recognized how futile it was to believe that a ring even mattered to begin with.

Everyone she’d ever loved had left her. 

By choice or by fate, they left. 

So it was better not to grow too attached to anyone; better to accept the hand that had been dealt to her, and soldier on alone. 

At least that was what she tried to remind herself when her loneliness started to get the better of her. 

But, God… God in Heaven, _Jamie…_

He’d broken through every last defense mechanism she possessed. There was something… something in him, something _between_ them that she couldn’t begin to describe. No matter how she tried to resist it, she was drawn to him — drawn back to him — over and over and over again. 

He wanted to know her. And even as her rational brain lectured about ticking time bombs and pending loss, the desire to be _known_ — to have someone truly understand her, _care_ about her for the first time in two decades — roused a raw, visceral, primal ache at the very core of her being.

She hated herself for it; for how desperately she needed him.

Blinking back tears, she reached for Jamie’s hand. 

_Don’t do it, Beauchamp,_ her mind warned again. _Claire, don’t do it…_  

“What would you like to know?”

 

* * *

 

  
She wasn’t very good at talking about herself.

There’d never been much of an opportunity for it before. 

Fortunately, Jamie _was_ a good listener, and an even better conversationalist. He seemed to know intuitively what to ask her, and then which train of follow-up questions to pursue. She allowed him to take the lead with no small measure of relief; whatever he asked, she answered, then turned the questions back on him. It was an easy back-and-forth, and soon enough their quiet, tender conversation evolved into more animated storytelling, rife with teasing and bursts of raucous laughter. 

They shared a lot of things in common, it turned out. 

And over the next several nights, Jamie seemed intent upon uncovering every last one of them. 

“Ye’re _wrong!”_ he groaned sometime well into the third session, dragging his palm over his eyes. 

“What?” Claire yipped. “What do you mean I’m _wrong?_ ”

“I would’ve accepted three answers, and that’s no’ even in the top _five_ —”

She rolled her eyes, nostrils flaring, trying so hard to repress a grin that the apples of her cheeks hurt. “Uh, I’m fairly certain you asked for _my_ favorite, not yours…?”

“Aye, but yer answer is just plain _wrong,_ Sassenach!” Jamie shook his head as though he were gravely disappointed in her, even as his blue eyes sparkled. Readjusting his posture, he raised three fingers and began to tick them off one at a time. “Ye’ve got yer classics, aye? I would have accepted _Robin Hood;_ ye’ve got the underdog, ken, yer pursuit of social justice—”   

Claire blew her lips like a horse, rolling her eyes again. 

“Or… or!” He laid down his next finger. _“Aladdin._ Robin Williams? Comedic gold. Perfectly acceptable answer.”

She raised her palm in acquiescence. “Okay, look, I’ll give you that one. That’s probably my second-favorite, but I still think—”

“But the _real answer_ ye were searchin’ for, my canny wee Sassenach,” Jamie pressed, brandishing his raised pointer finger as Claire’s lungs seized with barely-suppressed laughter, “is _The Lion King._ That’s what ye _meant_ to say, aye?”

“Mm…” She arranged her features into an expression of mock consideration, squinting at him and tilting her head to one side. “No. Nice try, but no. I still maintain that _Beauty and the Beast_ is the—”

“Get out.” He pointed at the door, then pressed the heels of his hands to his temples dramatically. “Just get out, I cannae even look at ye any more.”

“Fine.” She shrugged, reaching across him to grab the bag of Doritos she’d brought in for him upon learning that they were his favorite childhood snack. “But I’m taking my crisps with me.”

He snatched the half-empty bag off of his bedside stand and clutched it against his chest. “I think ye’ll find they’re _my_ crisps—” he quipped, feinting back and forth when Claire attempted halfheartedly to wrestle it out of his grasp. Once she managed to pry his thumb loose, he let go of the bag and snatched her wrist instead, bringing it up to his mouth in a faux-bite. She yelped out a laugh as she wrenched away, and Jamie’s eyes lit up at the sound. “But I’ll share ‘em wi’ ye over a lightning round, hm?” 

“Deal.”

He watched her suspiciously for a moment — eyes narrowed, lips pursed and twitching in an attempt not to smile — before releasing his grip on the bag and letting her have it. True to her word, Claire grabbed a handful of cheese-dusted crisps and then tilted the open bag for him to take some. She settled back on her stool cross-legged, munching contentedly while Jamie thumbed into his mobile and pulled up the random this-or-that Facebook quiz they’d been working through.

“Alright, Sassenach. Ye ready?”

“Mhm,” she agreed around a crunching orange mouthful. “Fire away.”

“Och, this is an easy one. Coffee or tea?”

“Coffee,” they said in unison.

“ _Slàinte mhath,_ ” Jamie toasted, tapping his styrofoam cup against hers and taking a sip before continuing on to the next question. “Coke or Pepsi?”

“Coke,” they concurred.

“Winter or summer?”

“Summer,” with aggrieved glances at the snow falling outside the window.

“But, for the record,” Jamie added, blue eyes darting up to gold, “I’m partial to autumn, myself.” 

Claire studied him for a moment, a smile bleeding across her face as she tried to picture him in flannel and denim, heavy boots crunching over a spectacular palette of flame-colored leaves. “So am I.”

For the space of several heartbeats, Jamie was derelict in his quiz-reading duties, his features softening as his gaze lingered over the faint lines etched around her eyes. His neck twitched when he caught himself. “Right, ah…” He quickly shifted his attention back down to his mobile. “Rocky road or mint chip?” 

Claire’s heart stuttered a half-beat out of rhythm, any lingering tenderness on her face draining into a chilled, glassy vacancy. 

She had to swallow three times to force the coffee past the sudden stricture in the back of her throat. 

Jamie had already begun to answer “rocky r—” and glanced up from his mobile with quirked eyebrows when she remained silent.

One look at her and his expression fell. “Somethin’ wrong, Sassenach?” 

She blinked, then looked up at him with a thin, tremulous smile. “Sorry, um…” she rasped, dropping her gaze back to her coffee. She could feel his eyes on her, and tried not to fidget under the scrutiny. “Mint, I suppose.” 

_Jesus H. Christ_ , it had been such a simple question. She kicked herself for letting it get to her; she didn’t need to go there, didn’t need to make it about… 

But there was no taking it back; Jamie was laser-focused, attuned to her discomfort — her underlying pain — as though he had a special sense for it. With anyone else, she might have laughed it off, made an excuse, asked for the next question. 

But not him. 

He wouldn’t push her on it, she knew; he didn’t ever demand answers she wasn’t willing to give. But he could see her, read her in a way that meant he probably already suspected… 

“I don’t eat ice cream any more,” she told him, her voice low, hoarse. Unable to hold Jamie’s gaze, she watched the light reflecting on the surface of her coffee. “I haven’t since the night my parents…” 

The silence that lapsed between them was palpable — coiled and pulsing like a living, breathing thing. 

Jamie slowly peeled back his blankets and shifted his legs over the side of the bed, sitting up fully and turning to face her head-on. He reached for her hand with both of his, and Claire gave it to him hesitantly, feeling her heart pound in her throat.

She hadn’t told anyone.

Not in twenty years.

Not since the police officer with a yellow sketchpad had given her a teddy bear and sat her in a plastic chair in his office, placing a recording device on the desk in front of her. 

And even then, she hadn’t told him everything; only the answers to the questions he asked.

_What time did you leave the park, sweetheart?_

_Did you stop anywhere on the way home?_

_Did your Daddy have anything to drink? Anything with alcohol, I mean? Are you sure? What about your Mummy?_

_Did Daddy seem upset lately? Was he angry or sad? Did he ever try to hurt you or Mummy? Did he ever talk about trying to hurt himself or other people?_

_Were Mummy or Daddy awake after you crashed? Did they say anything? What did they say?_

Claire’s hand seemed impossibly small, fragile and pale within the cradle of Jamie’s broad, warm ones. It was only by the contrast of his steadiness that she realized she was trembling. The recognition seemed to strike Jamie in the same moment, and he drew her closer, so that his knees rested on either side of her thighs — bracing her, steadying her. 

Her gaze lifted tentatively from his hands to his eyes, and found them holding her as well; just as warm, just as sure. 

He gave her an infinitesimal nod, and she swallowed against a sandpaper throat. 

When the first strained whisper moved past her lips, Claire didn’t even recognize the voice that emerged as her own. 

“There was a new amusement park that had just opened that year. I’d been asking my parents to go for… months. And the last day before school started, they finally took me as a surprise. One last hurrah for the summer, you know? And my dad, he… he’d been awake the whole night before; he had to work. But it was my first time on the roller coasters, and my mum was… _deathly_ afraid of heights, so he… he came with us, so I wouldn’t have to go alone. And he never complained, he never…”

She lapsed into a pained silence, wringing Jamie’s thumb between her fingers. There were no tears, not even the threat of them; only a hollow strain in her chest, like a drum whose hide had been stretched too tight over its barrel.

Strange, the things she remembered — the fragments of that last day that had stuck with her through the years, preserved in perfect detail in the deepest chambers of her memory. 

_Her mum lifting her sunglasses to smear a bit of sunscreen onto her high, delicate cheekbones._

_Her dad pulling the black foam restraint down over his shoulders, beaming over at her and waggling his eyebrows._

_The scent of frying oil, over-chlorinated water, coconut-scented sunblock, exhaust fumes, burnt sugar._

_The too-greasy pizza slice she and her dad had shared while they waited in line for a ride, their fair skin freckling as they baked in the late summer sun._

_The tug of practiced fingers through her curls as her mum leaned over the barrier ropes with a hairband pinched between her teeth, French-braiding Claire’s hair to get it off her neck._

The memories were vivid, tangible — as real to her in that moment as they’d been the day they happened. 

And yet, they made her feel nothing.

It was as if they belonged to somebody else entirely; as if she were a casual observer in another person’s mind. 

That wasn’t entirely untrue, she supposed. The Claire Beauchamp who had spent the last day of summer at an amusement park with her parents had died with them in a car crash later that night. 

But she didn’t know how to explain any of that to Jamie; couldn’t find the eloquent words that seemed to come so effortlessly to him. It was all she could do to drag helpless, haunted eyes up to his, and hope he would understand.

His own eyes dampened as they held hers, the lines around them etched deep with empathy. One of his hands unfolded from hers to sweep back into her hair, threading gently through her curls until it came to rest at the base of her neck. He held her steady and still as he leaned forward, inch by deliberate inch, until his forehead came to rest against hers. 

For a long moment they simply lingered there, eyes closed, pressed to one another and aching in silence. Then Jamie shifted just slightly, his fingers tipping her head down in the same moment that his chin lifted, so that his lips settled softly against her brow.

Claire breathed out a wavering exhale as she slumped forward, letting Jamie tuck her under his chin. He let go of her hand to cup his palm over the curve of her spine, and the wheels of her stool gave off a quiet grating noise as he pulled her in, cradling her against him. She burrowed gratefully into the solid warmth of him, taking comfort from the steady rise and fall of his chest, the thump of his heart just beneath her hand.  

And after resting quietly with him for awhile, she discovered that it was easier, somehow, to talk like this — wrapped snug and safe in the circle of his arms. The words that had eluded her before began to take shape from lips muffled against Jamie’s chest, her confessions whispered just above his heart, where she knew he would keep them safe. 

“I’d asked for ice cream at some point. But the line at the concession stand was... bloody ridiculous, so my dad said we’d get some later. And I wouldn’t let him forget it.” 

She shook her head faintly, swallowing against the burn of shame that crested high in the back of her throat. The hand cradling her head tightened its grip, steadying her, while the one at her back began to smooth up and down the length of her spine. Nudging her nose tighter against Jamie’s chest, she forced herself to continue. 

“He was exhausted. I knew… I _knew_ he was exhausted, but all I could do after that… that _wonderful_ day was complain that he’d promised me a fucking ice cream cone. So after we left, he… drove all over looking for a place that was still open.”

Jamie pressed his lips to the top of her head, breathing out shakily. “Claire…” 

She shook her head, harder this time. She didn’t want excuses or platitudes. She needed him to know exactly what her selfishness had cost. 

“It was my job to keep him awake. Mum fell asleep, and he asked me to keep talking to him, keep...” She could feel it beginning — the telltale burn every time she took a breath, the well of saliva in her mouth, the tightness in her throat. She was either going to cry or be sick or both, so she tried to talk faster, purge the words before they overwhelmed her completely. 

“And I did, for a while. I tried. But then I… I fell asleep too, and the next thing I knew, we were… swerving off the side of the road, and there was this… this _terrible_ noise when we went through the guard rail, and it…”

Her voice grew more and more strained, until it was paper thin, rasping, barely coherent. “It was almost like the… the water ride, you know… when you… you go over the edge and you fall, and your heart is in your throat, and then there’s the… the splash and then…”

The first hot tears spilled down her cheeks as a whimpering sob wrenched through her. At the sound, Jamie’s muscles tensed as if he were in physical pain, and then suddenly he was shifting, readjusting — molding his whole body around hers as though he could fuse her into him, envelop her completely. 

“I hit the… the back of the seat when we crashed. My collarbone sn-napped, went thr-rough the… the skin, and I — I couldn’t reach b-back to get my seatbelt off.” Her chin quivered uncontrollably, and she pressed herself closer to Jamie, sucking in tight, hissing breaths through her teeth. “I was… crying for help, and my… my dad was… screaming my mum’s name, and… he… he finally reached back and… got my seat-b-belt off and… m-made me… st-tand up and… and…”

Her words were fracturing, her humming sobs and gasps for air smearing one syllable into the next. She was vaguely aware that Jamie was rocking her, his lips moving restlessly over her head, kissing and shushing her in turns, but the broken syllables kept spurting out of her like blood pulsing from an open wound.

“We had a station w-agon, a hatch-b-back, so I… opened it and… looked back d-down and my… my dad was h-holding my mum. She was… I think she was already d-dead, o-or unconscious, maybe. But her legs were p-pinned and he — he wouldn’t leave her, he… he told me to swim, to go back to the road and get h-help, and I didn’t… I thought he m-meant help for _them_ , but h-he _knew_ , he... The water was already coming in and he… he told me they l-loved me and t-to go get _help_ , so I — I jumped out, I _left_ them, and I… I nev—never said it _back_ , I never told him I lov—”

She dissolved completely then, surrendering to the grief that still tasted of the river water and mud and bile she’d retched at the roadside, waiting for help that didn’t come fast enough. 

Beneath the muffled sounds of her sobbing, Jamie kept whispering to her over and over, giving her the words of reassurance she needed so desperately to hear; a fluid mix of Gaelic and English, something that sounded like _“mo grye”_ and “I promise they knew,” and “you did right, shh, you did exactly right.”

She nestled into him and cried until there was nothing left; until the hollow, drumlike tightness in her chest had worked itself loose; until the salt tracks had dried on her cheeks; until her breathing and pulse had steadied, locked into rhythm with his. 

And even then she remained, limp and spent in his arms, needing to be held more than she could ever remember needing anything. 

They lingered wordlessly for such a long time — swaying gently, breathing each other in — that when Jamie finally spoke again, his voice startled her, though it was little more than a whisper against her ear.

“Who took care of ye, after? Where did ye go?”

Claire sniffled and sat up slowly, her spine letting off soft cracks of protest after spending so long slumped forward. She swiped her fingertips over her puffy, salt-stiff eyes and back into her hair, raising her shoulders in a shrug as she inhaled, then letting them drop on a sigh. 

“My, um… my Uncle Lamb became my legal guardian,” she told him, her voice groggy and hoarse, about an octave deeper than it normally was. “But he didn’t... he didn’t exactly have a lifestyle that was well-suited for raising a child. He was an archaeologist, a brilliant one. Traveled all over the world excavating ancient burial sites. So when he um… _inherited_ me, I suppose, he enrolled me in a boarding school just outside of Paris. And I think I saw him a grand total of… I don’t know, maybe five or six times after that? He died when I was sixteen. After that, I petitioned to become an emancipated minor rather than enter the foster system. So.” 

She shrugged listlessly. She didn’t need to look up to see the wheels turning in Jamie’s head as he processed what she was saying. She heard him take a breath and swallow before clarifying, “So ye dinna… ye dinna have any family left, then? Grandparents? Cousins?”

Another shrug, slower this time. “No. Just me.” 

Jamie was silent for so long that she felt a blush creeping into her cheeks. She huffed out a self-deprecating little laugh, trying to lighten the mood. “Apparently, I’m cursed. So I… I wouldn’t go getting too attached to me, if I were you.”

She heard the soft, incredulous gust of Jamie’s breath as his hand ghosted up the column of her neck, over the curve of her jaw. 

“It’s a bit late for that, Sassenach,” he murmured, brushing the pad of his thumb over her cheekbone. His voice was low, husky — a tone she’d never heard from him before; a tone that made her stomach flip and her heart stutter in her chest.

Her eyes slowly dragged up to his, and found them burning blue, lingering over her lips. 

And before she could think, she was leaning in to him, her breath shaking through parted lips as it mingled with the humid warmth of his.

She felt it, rather than heard it — the single, strained syllable of her name breathed into her mouth. 

“Claire.”

A warning, not an invitation.

She wasn’t sure which of them pulled back first, but when she opened her eyes wide to look at him, Jamie looked for all the world as if he’d just signed his own death warrant. Every line of his face was etched into agony, regret — but beneath it, a steadfast resolve. 

“I promised ye,” he rasped, his eyes begging her for understanding, for forgiveness. “I promised I wouldna do anything that could—”

“No, I know.” Her voice wavered, cracked. “I know, I—”

She couldn’t feel her bones as she stumbled to her feet; she felt too light, as if she might dissolve to dust in the faintest draft. Her hands raked back into her hair and then wrapped tightly around her ribcage, trying to hold herself together as she backpedaled, needing to get away from him, needing to... 

He sensed it, she was sure. The pain in his face shifted into panic as he watched her go. 

She wasn’t coming back this time. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, fresh tears swimming in her eyes, blurring the image of him as he tried to climb to his feet, come after her. “God, Jamie, I’m s— I’m so sorry.”

“Claire, wait. _Claire_...”

She managed to bite back the sob burning in her chest until his door clicked shut behind her.


	19. Of Lost Things

Jamie knew immediately who had entered his room without needing to open his eyes. 

Gillian Edgars was about as subtle as a ton of bricks.

She burst in with the squeak and clatter of the door, then the heavy clunk of a clogged foot kicking it shut again; the clomping footfalls of said clogs across the linoleum floor; the noisy smacking and popping of her gum; the squeak of wheels and squish of air out of the leather seat as she plopped onto the stool in front of him. 

“Right. I’ve got six minutes before huddle, so _spill_.” 

Jamie laid very still, hoping she’d take a damn hint and leave him alone. No such luck, of course; he could practically _hear_ her eyes rolling as she jabbed her finger into his ribs. “I ken ye’re no’ asleep, ye numpty.” 

 _“Ow!_ Fer fuck’s sake.” He cracked his eyelids to glare narrowly at his fellow Scot. “I thought Mary was supposed to be my nurse tonight.”

“She is. She’ll be in after report. So _tick-tock_!” Gillian snapped at him insistently, then leaned forward, eyebrows raised, hands folded under her chin. “Out wi’ it. Tell me everything.” 

Jamie hitched his blanket up higher on his shoulders and buried his face in his pillow. “Dinna ken what ye’re on about,” he grumbled.

“Och, cut the shite, Fraser. What happened wi’ Claire last night? Did ye fuck her, is that it?”

He choked on his own saliva as his head jerked up in surprise. “What? _No!”_

“Did she blow ye, then? Get a wee bit handsy? Come on, _details_ , I dinna have all night!”

“I—no _._ No! _Ah Dhia,_ nothing _happened!”_ he stammered, burning red straight to the tips of his ears. “Alright? Jesus. _Rach a h-Irt.”_

“Mmm...” Gillian made a show of considering his answer, then let out a flat tone like the sound of a game show buzzer. “Yeah, _no._ I’m no’ as daft as I look, _a bhalaich_. Try again. She was in here for what, an hour and a half? I _ken,_ because I answered her feckin’ call lights so ye wouldna be interrupted — ye’re _welcome,_ by the way—”

Jamie glowered at her, but having no real rebuttal to offer, he simply huffed out a sharp breath into his pillow. “I’m tellin’ ye, nothin’ happened.”

“Weel, _something_ obviously did, if Claire-I-Show-Up-Tae-Work-With-Walking-Pneumonia-And-A-39-Degree-Fever-Beauchamp called off for the next three feckin’ nights rather than face ye.”

He winced at that. Of course, he’d suspected as much, but to hear it actually confirmed… 

Christ, she truly didn’t mean to see him again. 

Under his Sassenach’s watchful eye and stern regimen, he’d finally turned a corner in his recovery. Every day, it seemed he was checking off a new milestone. There had been quite a bit of talk over the past few days about transferring him to a short term rehab place, either here in Boston or back in Scotland. Claire had been researching on her mobile, kept showing him various places she’d found — only the very best, boasting top marks on performance benchmarks, excellent staffing ratios, and a whole alphabet of national accreditations. The one she kept pushing him toward the hardest was in Inverness; golden eyes brimming with tenderness, she’d reminded him that Christmas was coming, and he’d want to be close to his family.

And reluctantly, he’d agreed... all the while wishing she’d ask him to pick a place in Boston, give him a reason to stay.

_Fat chance of that now, Fraser. Ye’ve fuckin’ blown it._

Jamie swallowed the bile rising in the back of his throat as he counted the remaining days again, hoping he was wrong, miscalculating somehow. 

The consensus for his discharge seemed to be Tuesday, assuming his team could coordinate the transfer. Claire knew that. She’d been the one to orchestrate it, advocate for it.

It was Saturday night. And she’d called off for three shifts.

Which meant she wouldn’t be back until Tuesday night... when he was already gone.

The optimist in him — the hopeless romantic — tried to frame it as a good thing. Any illusion of professional distance had burnt to ash in the searing heat of her breath on his lips. It was clear enough that neither of them could maintain the pretense of a friendship or a strict nurse-patient relationship when they both obviously craved more. 

So maybe… just _maybe_ she was biding her time, avoiding him in her professional capacity until they could finally be together, free from the constraints of her job.

He had to believe that. Because the alternative was that he’d ruined everything, and he’d never see Claire Beauchamp again.

And that simply wasn’t a possibility he was willing to accept.

Any more, it seemed, than Gillian was ready to accept his vague non-answer to her question. 

“Fecked up bad, did ye?” she asked, with a sympathetic twist of her mouth. 

“Aye,” he agreed softly. “Mebbe.”

“Mmphm.” Gillian leaned back, her arms crossed and chin cocked. “Well, I’m deid fond of ye, Jamie Fraser. But I swear to God, if ye break ma girl’s heart, I’ll—”

“No. _God,_ no, I would n— I never _meant_ tae—” He crushed the heel of his hand to his brow as if it would relieve the dull, throbbing pressure in his skull. “Jesus, I only meant to protect her.”

“From what? You?”

“No, her job. _This_ job.”

After a beat or two, she squinted at him. “I dinna follow.”

Jamie speared her with a glare. “Ye’re no’ allowed to get involved wi’ yer patients. She could be fired if—”

“Oh fer _fuck’s sake,”_ Gillian scoffed, her eyes rolling to the ceiling. “I’m sorry, was there a manager lingerin’ about at two in the morning that I wasna aware of?” She made a sweeping gesture around the room. “Keekin’ through the window, hidin’ in yer wee closet?”

Jamie opened and closed his mouth, feeling a flush creep up his neck. “I — _no,_ but we’re not exactly _alone,_ either, are we? There’s the techs, the other nurses, the… the phlebotomists, the janitors, feckin’... I dinna ken, _room service_ , the—the linen and trash people, _anyone_ could see us and—” 

“God, ye’re _right!”_ Gillian gasped, placing a hand over her heart in feigned horror. “If only there were this… this _apparatus,_ ye ken, like… like a wide piece of fabric that could be pulled across the front of the room to block people from seein’ what’s goin’ on inside…”

His mouth went dry, a pang of want burning him from chest to cock at the very _thought_ of what he and Claire might have done with and to one another behind the privacy of that curtain. He shifted the blankets covering his lap as subtly as he could _(Christ, naturally he’d get a cockstand with the nosiest nurse on staff standing right in front of him)_ , then swallowed and shook his head resolutely. “It’s still a risk, and no’ one I’m willing to take when her heid’s the one on the chopping block.”

Gillian looked up suddenly with a spark of realization. “... But _she_ was. Is that what ye’re sayin’? Claire pulled a move on ye, is that it?”  

Jamie dropped his gaze, twisting the pillowcase between his thumb and forefinger. “She meant to kiss me, aye.” 

“And ye _stopped_ her?!”

He gave a miserable nod. “Look, I ken that probably makes me the biggest eejit on the planet...”

“Aye, it does!” She raked both of her hands back through her hair, then settled them on her hips. “Jesus feckin’ _Christ,_ man, no wonder she called off!”

“I didna mean to hurt her,” he murmured, his voice growing faint, pained. “If ye… if ye talk to her again, will ye please tell her that for me?”

Gillian studied him for a moment, her expression gradually softening. She reached out to pat his shoulder twice as she rose to her feet. “Tell her yerself, _a bhalaich,"_ she told him. “She’ll be back. Claire’s no’ the type to leave wi’out at least sayin’ goodbye.”

He swallowed hard, aching to his marrow, utterly desolate at the thought. “I dinna want to say goodbye,” he rasped. 

“Then _tell her that_ , ye clotheid!” she growled, reaching over to flick his temple, hard. “And fer Christ’s sake stop being such a feckin’ _hero.”_

And with that, she began to turn on her heel, pausing as an afterthought to grab a handful of Doritos from the open bag on his bedside stand before leaving him alone to ponder in the silence of a dark hospital room.

 

* * *

 

“You okay, baby? You seem kinda out of it this morning.” 

Tired blue eyes dragged up to kind brown ones, and Jamie made a halfhearted attempt at a smile. “Och, aye, m’fine. Think I must have slept weird last night. Got a bad crick in my neck.” He winced, rolling his shoulders a few times before taking a firm hold on the grips of the walker Shariah was bracing in front of him. “I’m ready, though. Let’s do this.”

“Well, hold your horses there, Hercules. Let’s loosen you up a bit first if you’re hurting, stretch those muscles out before we get started.” 

Jamie followed the physical therapist gratefully through a series of stretches, and let out a sigh of relief afterward, tilting his head from side to side. 

“Aye, that’s much better. _Tapadh leit, a nighean_ ,” he said, knowing the wee bit of Gaelic would make her morning. True to form, Shariah flapped a hand over her heart, batted her lashes heavenward, and proceeded to call him _“honey-bun”_ and _“sugar-pie”_ and all other manner of blush-inducing nicknames throughout the remainder of his 0900 PT session. 

And his stiff neck was forgotten for the time being. 

But when Lisa showed up for his afternoon session a few hours later, the soreness had returned with a vengeance. His whole back was hurting — a deep, throbbing ache that radiated from his buttocks to the base of his skull. He explained the problem to her, and she suggested that he’d probably pinched a nerve. She had him repeat the same exercises Shariah had taken him through earlier that morning, plus a few additional ones to stretch out his lower back and glutes.

This time, they didn’t help.

He pushed through his session with her anyway, knowing he needed to walk as much as possible. Both Lisa and Shariah had warned him that the physical therapy sessions in rehab would be grueling, intended to push him hard and get him back to optimal functioning as quickly as possible. He needed to prepare himself for that — build up his stamina, his mental and physical discipline; he couldn’t allow a damn pinched nerve to prevent him from doing everything within his power to get back to his old self again — whole and capable and strong.

And worthy of a certain wee Sassenach. 

For her sake, he could push through just about anything.

But by the time Shariah showed up for his last PT session of the day, he could barely move.

She gave him an ice pack and a maroon-lipsticked kiss on the cheek, and told him to get some rest.

The next time he opened his eyes, his room was completely dark, and Mary Hawkins’ small, tentative fingers were tapping lightly on his forearm. 

“Mr. Fraser?” she whispered, and even that delicate sound made his whole head ring like a bell. Jamie grunted, grinding the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. 

“I’m s-sorry to wake you. I’m just here to get your v-vitals and do y-y-your assessment, if that’s alright?”

“Ach, my _heid...”_ he groaned, and the vibration of his own voice made his skull rattle, no matter how tightly he clutched it. 

“You… you have a headache, Mr. Fraser?”

“Aye,” Jamie gasped, his whole face contorted in agony. “A bad one. Can ye-” He hissed in a breath through his teeth. “-get me somethin’ for it? _Please? Gah... fuck..._ ”

“Yes! Yes, of course. I can do that.” 

 _Christ,_ her squeaky wee voice was like a _needle_ through his brain. 

“I’ll be right back, okay? Just h-hold on _one_ second...”

He was still hissing out curses through his teeth when Mary scurried back with a plastic cup and his pain pills. He released his viselike grip on his head just long enough to toss them back with a sip of water, then crushed his palms back into his eye sockets again. 

“Mr. Fraser, how w-would you rate your pain on a sc-cale of zer…”

 _“Ten,”_ he choked out. “Fecking _ten.”_

“Alright, well... w-w-we need to give those pills a little w-while to work, and then if you need s-something more…”

“Aye, fine,” he agreed, mostly to get her to shut up. He was beginning to shake, though from the pain or the cold, he wasn’t quite sure — because beneath the all-consuming, crushing pressure in his head, he was suddenly aware that it was _freezing_ in that hospital room, as if someone had accidentally knocked the thermostat off. He keened out a long, low sound, pulling his blankets up over his head. “Can ye — _schzzz, fuck_ — can ye get me a warm blanket, please? Freezin’ in here.”

She stammered some response in the affirmative and then she was gone again, leaving him to moan and whimper like a bairn. He took a bite of his pillow to stop himself when she came back, footsteps light and quick as a faerie’s. When the warmth of two heated blankets suddenly settled over him, he hummed out a muffled sound of appreciation.

“I’ll just be… I’ll just, um… I’m going to let those pain meds kick in, and I’ll be _right outside,_ okay, _right_ at that charting station, if you need anything at all.”  

Jamie grunted, and she went away again.

He had no sense whatsoever of how much time had passed, only the fact that her assurances had been empty. 

The pills did nothing; the longer he laid there, the worse the pain got. 

Although ‘pain’ didn’t even begin to describe the inferno that had raged to life inside of him.

Everything was on _fire_. His back, his neck, his shoulders, his head, Jesus his _head_ … it was as if he was burning from the inside, _imploding_ — a column of wildfire roaring up his spine and into his brain, the viscera and membranes and blood vessels being boiled alive in their own juices, expanding up and out against his skull until he was sure his head was going to split open at the sutures.

He slapped a hand around the bed for his call light, finally desperate enough for relief that he was willing to deal with Mary to ask for it. 

No sooner had his finger touched the nurse button than she scampered through his door again.

“Feeling any better?” she asked hopefully.

“Worse,” he choked. “I need the… the thing for spasms… _flex-a_ -something… _please.”_ His shaking had evolved to full-blown muscle spasms, the likes of which he hadn’t seen since his Sassenach had started him on the regimen of those wee pills. Each wracking spasm made him see red, as if the blood vessels in his eyes were going to burst. 

Mary hesitated, then asked falteringly, “Is the p-p-pain still a ten?”

“I canna stop _shaking!”_ he sobbed outright, his teeth chattering with each gasping breath. “It’s making it worse, _please,_ I need…”

_Claire. I need Claire._

He wasn’t entirely sure what happened right after that.

Everything went black, and then he felt as though he were spinning very fast, though he could feel the mattress, solid and unmoving beneath him.

The next thing he recognized was Gillian’s voice.

“Get him on his left side!” He felt a pair of hands on his shoulders, turning him. “Do we have oxygen tubing in here? Then go grab some off the crash cart! No, just bring the whole cart back wi’ ye! You, get a pulse ox on him. You, call a rapid response. You, STAT page the attending. Not the resident, the _attending_. Tell them they need to get to the bedside right now. _Right now,_ people! Go, go, go!” 

A cool hand on his cheek, fingers trying to pry open his clenched eyelids. “Jamie? Can ye hear me, _a bhalaich?_ Come on. Come on, don’t feckin’ do this to me.”

With great effort, he forced bleary, unfocused eyes open, and heard Gillian’s sigh of relief. 

“Good lad. Blink if ye understand me, Jamie. _Good._ Good lad. He’s conscious, responding to commands.” 

He felt hands pushing him onto his back and then up onto his side again, lifting his arm, strapping wires and monitors all over him. 

He jerked back when someone stuck tubing in his nose, blasting cold air down his nostrils. The motion made his head spin, and he blacked out again.

When he came to, there was a high frantic beeping noise, and someone behind him was calling out a series of numbers. 

He heard Gillian cuss violently under her breath in the _Gàidhlig_ _._

His vision was swimming, blackness pressing in like a tide at his periphery. Jamie wanted to let it take him under — wanted to stop hurting, burning.

But first, he had to ask. 

He rolled his dry tongue around his mouth, swallowed, and managed hoarsely, “Am I dyin’, then?”

Gillian’s face blurred in and out of focus — pale and terrified, but fierce. She set her chin and shook her head. “Not on my watch.” 

So he was, then.

_Fuck._

He was sinking, spiraling down toward the blissful promise of oblivion.

He had regrets the last time, certainly. He was only twenty-six. There were so many things he hadn’t done, life goals he’d never accomplished, places he’d never traveled, plans he’d made that would never come to fruition. 

But none of that seemed important right at the moment. 

Because the last time he’d brushed elbows with death, he hadn’t known Claire. 

He hadn’t known what it was like to speak to another person as openly and freely as he spoke to his own soul. 

He hadn’t known what it was like to light up from the inside, to feel his heart race just from hearing her voice from down the hall, to have every nerve ending in his body fire at the brush of her palm against his. 

He hadn’t known that he was missing her, _starved_ for her, until he held her against him, breathed her in, and felt his very veins hum with relief. 

And now that he did know… God, he just wanted more time with her. Perhaps that was selfish or greedy; even what little time he’d had with her should have been enough to fill him with gratitude rather than regret. 

But still, he wanted _more._  

He wanted to know what it was like to taste her mouth, feel her body rise to his, move with her as he buried himself deep inside of her. He wanted to wake up in the morning with her arms wrapped around him, her wild tangle of brown curls splayed out across his chest. He wanted a thousand more nights — a _hundred_ thousand — curled up on the couch with her, sharing cookies and tangerines and watching HGTV reruns. He wanted to look up one sunny Saturday morning to the sight of her veiled in white lace, walking toward him down a church aisle. He wanted to watch her belly swell with his child, wanted to pick out herringbone tile with her at the Home Depot with their curly-haired bairn asleep on his shoulder. 

He wanted to fight for those things. For her. For _them._

“Claire,” he rasped.

But it seemed he wouldn’t get the opportunity.

He wouldn’t even get a chance to say goodbye. Even if he asked for her, _begged_ for her to come — even if she dropped everything and ran as fast as she could — he knew he was fading faster than she could get here.

He was out of time.

“Tell Claire I…”

 _“No,”_ Gillian snapped at once, and he thought he heard her voice catch. “Don’t you feckin’ do that. Don’t you dare give up on me, Jamie Fraser. You tell her yerself.” 

_Stubborn bloody Scot._

Too weary to argue, he let his eyes slip shut. “Ye were right, though,” he sighed. “Should have... kissed her when... I had the chance.”

As he slipped away, the last thoughts in Jamie’s head were of his Sassenach; of eyes the color of fine whisky; a smile that made her freckled nose crinkle; skin like opals and pearls; a riot of dark curls that felt like silk against his lips.  

 _Mo nighean donn,_ he thought fondly, smiling as the last of the pain finally ebbed. _My brown-haired lass._

And then there was nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gaelic translations:
> 
>  _Ah Dhia_ : Oh god  
>  _Rach a h-Irt_ : "Bugger off," essentially  
>  _a bhalaich_ : laddie/buddy/sonny, term of endearment for a boy  
>  _Tapadh leit, a nighean_ : Thank you, lass.


	20. His

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _A/N: Thank you so much for your patience with me in getting this chapter up, friends! Life's been crazy busy lately and I wanted to take the time to get this right. That said, I had planned to wait to post this until I had chapters 21 and 22 ready to go as well, but A. Felt confident enough in the place I'd left this chapter to go ahead and post, and B. Know you've been waiting AGES! So I'm posting this one now, but 21 and 22 will still be a double-feature!_

Claire couldn’t feel her feet touch the ground. 

As she tore across the salted concrete, her heart ceased to have any discernible rhythm; one frenzied beat slurred into the next until it had escalated to a fever pitch, a thunderous oscillation against her breastbone. The wind was at her back, roaring between the skyscrapers and propelling her forward until she was flying, _flying_ …

And still not fast enough. 

Of course, the one night — the _one fucking night_ she’d set her mobile on silent, crawled under the covers, and succumbed to a Benadryl-induced sleep… 

_CLAIRE ANSWER YOUR GODDAMN PHONE_

There were twenty missed calls, three voicemails, and five texts — all from Gillian — when she’d gotten up to use the bathroom in the middle of the night. 

_CLAIRE I AM DEAD SERIOUS ANSWER YOUR PHONE!!!!!!! It’s an actual emergency_

She hadn’t bothered with a coat; had barely managed to slip on her trainers and snatch her keys and hospital ID badge off the entry table—

_FFS I don’t want to tell you this by text! Pick up!_

Barreled down the apartment stairs, slammed through the door and out into the bitter cold—

_OK well… apparently not gonna have a choice here. You need to get to the MICU ASAP. Room 6. We just rapid responsed Jamie._

Took off at a dead sprint toward the hospital, the night around her blurring into smears of light as she ran as hard and as fast as she could.

_He’s fucking sick, Claire. Think it’s meningitis. He’s seizing on and off. They were intubating him when I did handoff. You need to get here like now. Like right fucking now._

Claire had managed to fire off a single, typo-filled request for as many details as possible. She could feel her mobile buzzing against her hip as she ran, promising answers that she didn’t have time to stop and read until she collapsed against the elevator panel in the hospital lobby, smashing her palm against the _up_ button over and over again.

_Last vitals I saw were temp of 41, HR in the 200s, O2 sats in the 80s._

_I know they were loading him with phenobarb and going to try to get an LP, then start IV abx and steroids._

_I can call down there and ask the charge for an update, but if you’re on the way you’ll probably find out before I do_

Claire’s hands were shaking so badly that autocorrect struggled to fix both fumbling words as she tapped them into her screen: _I’m here._

The light above the elevator door illuminated with a soft ding, and she drummed her palms restlessly against her thighs, hissing _“come on, come on, come on”_ under her breath as she waited for the doors to open. Every fraction of a second seemed to take hours; it was like something out of a nightmare, in which a sinister, oozing black pitch had encased her organs and turned her blood to sludge, making her movements feel heavy — impossibly, _infuriatingly_ slow.

With Jamie just out of reach, needing her.

And she wasn’t there.

She hadn’t _been there_.

The moment the elevator doors parted on the Medical Intensive Care Unit, Claire shouldered her way through sideways, eyes frantically scanning for bed numbers. When she found the correct sign, she pushed off hard to the left, wet-soled trainers slipping on the linoleum as she launched into a full-tilt run. She slowed at the front desk only long enough to brandish her ID badge, and heaved a sigh of relief when the clerk gave a quick nod of acknowledgment, waving her through without question. 

There was some sort of commotion going on as she rounded the corner into the patient care area. Staff were running in and out of a room near the end of the hall, and for a split second Claire stopped in her tracks, feeling her heart go cold in terror. 

Room four... they were coding someone in room four.

Four, not six.

_Not Jamie._

She gulped in several strangled gasps for air, pressing a hand to her diaphragm as she staggered past the scene of controlled pandemonium. There were at least ten people crammed into the small room, blocking her view of what was going on inside, but she could hear a doctor calling out orders as her steps faltered outside the very next room. As her shaking fingertips lifted to touch the name FRASER, J. on the door tag, she heard the doctor command another dose of epinephrine and a _“charge to 300.”_

It was suddenly real then. 

Jamie was here. In this place, in this room. Surrounded by wires and monitors, hooked up to machines to keep him alive. Someone was actively _dying_ in the next room. At any given moment, it could just as easily be him.

That was his current reality.

And now it was hers, too.

Claire was no stranger to trauma, or illness, or death. She had been a nurse for seven years — the first four in the A&E in London, the remainder here at Mass General — and in that time, she’d handled countless emergencies with a cool head and steady hands. She’d started IVs on patients who barely had a pulse; given rescue breaths to limp blue babies while their mothers screamed; pressed her palms into gushing wounds to staunch the bleeding; straddled a gurney as patients were wheeled up to this very unit, cracking ribs with the force of her chest compressions. 

She’d never been afraid before. Never shied from a challenge, never balked in the face of a medical crisis. 

But there was nothing left of the Velvet Hammer in her as she stepped over the threshold into room 6. 

She was just Claire. Plain Claire Beauchamp, and nothing more. 

And lying in the bed in front of her, motionless beneath a tangle of wires and gauze and tubing, was the man she loved.   

Desperately.

It was no longer possible to deny it. _God_ , how she’d tried. But the fragile pretense of professional detachment that had caved first to friendship — and then, reluctantly, to _attraction_ — dissolved entirely when death had come lurking in the middle of the night, threatening to rip away the man who had unwittingly taken root at the very center of her life.

She had never meant to fall in love with him.

With his kind eyes and his easy smile, his quick wit and his warm heart.

With his generosity, his gentleness. His protective streak. His chivalry, his passion.

With his stupid stubborn pigheadedness, his resilience; his incredible, impossible strength.

But there was no help for it. It was the most powerful thing she’d ever felt in her life. And with time, the devastating truth that she’d tried so hard to bury had merely etched itself onto the deepest parts of her — the walls of her veins, the marrow of her bones, the molten red matter of her soul. 

She loved him. She _loved him,_ and all of this was _her fault,_ and if he died on her now...

“Jamie,” she breathed, her voice nearly lost beneath the mechanical whir of the ventilator. Eyes swimming with tears, she took a half-stride forward, hesitated, drew in a shaking breath, then took another step. “It’s me. Claire.”

Of course, there was no response; how could there be? In the aching silence, Claire thought she heard her heart break — a small, clean sound, like the snapping of a flower’s stem. Closing her eyes, she tried to envision him the way he always greeted her; blue eyes lighting up, a tender smile touching the corner of his mouth. 

_Hello, Sassenach._

Another step closer, another wavering breath. She wrung her hands, scoring her bottom lip with her teeth. Even if Jamie couldn’t respond, she knew he could _hear_ her; the words themselves might be lost to him, but he would recognize her voice, at least, and know he wasn’t alone.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” she whispered. “If I… if I’d known, I never…” 

Her voice broke, and she swallowed hard to steady it as she closed the last of the distance between them. 

It was only supposed to have been three days. He was _fine_ when she’d left him. Healthy, strong. He was ready for discharge; it was simply a matter of paperwork, jumping through all the bureaucratic hoops of an international transfer. Claire’s plan had been — had _always_ been — to come back, to tell him about the accident on the day he finally went home. Once he knew the truth, she knew he’d want to get as far away from Boston — from _her_ — as possible. So in their final days together, she’d pushed Jamie hard towards the rehab facility in Inverness, desperate to get him back into the arms of his family, his friends; loved ones who would be able to comfort him, support him, help him get his life back on track after she’d done such a bloody _thorough_ job of derailing it.

And in the meantime, she’d stepped back… a sinking pit of dread accompanying their near-kiss, the warning of her name whispered into her mouth; the knowledge that she’d allowed both of them to get in way, way over their heads. Every night she and Jamie spent together, they’d just kept getting closer, deeper. And it was only going to make the inevitable confession that much harder on them both. 

So she’d left. Knowing that when she saw him again in three days’ time, it would be to tell him the truth. To lose him forever.

She’d never thought… never _dreamed_ that she might lose him in another manner entirely.

In the dim light, her eyes traced the lines of his face, the muscles gone unnaturally slack from sedation. He wasn’t pale, as she’d expected; his skin was flushed, coated in a fine sheen of sweat that had soaked his pillowcase and the sheet covering him. A damp washcloth was draped across his neck, and Claire peeled it back gently, making a soft noise of distress when her fingers brushed his skin. 

“Christ, you’re burning up,” she hissed, pressing the back of her hand to his throat, then his cheek. Jamie’s entire head was covered in a veritable rainbow of probes to monitor seizure activity; her brow furrowed in concentration as she flipped the washcloth to the cool side and began to dab it over his face, working carefully around the wires and tape. 

“There,” she soothed. “There, that’s better, isn’t it? That’s better. Let’s… let’s get this sheet off of you too, and… and we’ll get you a clean gown and some more washcloths when your nurse comes back. We’ll get you more comfortable, Jamie. It’s going to be alright. Everything’s going to be alright.”

_It has to be._

Desperately grateful to have something tangible to do for him, Claire left Jamie’s side just long enough to wet the washcloth in fresh, cool water from the tap before returning to sponge off his neck and chest. When she unsnapped the shoulders of his sweat-soaked gown and peeled them back, she found ice packs tucked under both armpits, though his body heat had long since melted the ice; the water inside was almost lukewarm. Frowning, she glanced over her shoulder at the sliding glass door, and the vacant charting station just beyond where his nurse was meant to be seated, watching him at all times. 

_Where the bloody hell—?_

A loud thump, followed by a metallic crash and clatter from the adjacent room, was her timely and sobering reminder of the ongoing code blue. All hands would be on deck; she certainly couldn’t blame his nurse for that.

Easing closer to Jamie on instinct, Claire gritted her teeth as she listened to the voices of the medical professionals growing more and more frantic next door.

“I can’t get chest rise!”

“We’re still at 23, you’re in, he’s just—” 

“Someone get me _suction_ over here, I — shit, _shit_ …”

There was a sudden, long, deafening silence. Claire went very still, straining to hear, her eyes fixed unblinkingly on Jamie’s face.

At long last, an exhausted, defeated voice said, “Time of death, 02:48.” Another beat of silence, then a monotonous, “I’ll go tell his wife.” 

A single tear slipped down Claire’s cheek. She didn’t bother to wipe it away. 

Sniffling hard, she bent across Jamie, laying her arm over his chest, her fingers curling tightly into the flesh of his shoulder, as if by sheer force alone she might anchor him there with her. She tipped her forehead down until it rested against his temple, muttering fiercely into his ear, “Don’t you dare go getting any bright ideas, Jamie Fraser. You’re not going anywhere, do you hear me?”  

A few stray auburn curls peeked out from the bottom of the netting holding his seizure probes in place. Claire smoothed them back with her free hand, her fingertips beginning the slow, delicate weave through his hair that had always managed to soothe him when he needed comfort. 

“I know you’re tired,” she whispered, her lips wobbling before she pressed them briefly to the soft spot just behind his ear. “You’ve been fighting for such a long time. But you can’t give up on me now. You’ve got such a wonderful life ahead of you, Jamie. Y—you’ve got so much to look forward to.” 

Her breath hitched as she eased closer, fitting her cheekbone under the curve of his jaw. “You’ll be home in time for Hogmanay, for the new year. It’ll be a fresh start, Jamie. You can… you can put all of this behind you. You can work on that start-up you’ve been dreaming of, hm?” 

She remembered so vividly the way his eyes had danced as he told her all about his plans to create a non-profit to help farmers back home in Scotland. It was his passion project, his life’s calling. A few months before the accident, he’d landed an internship here in Boston with a coalition of organizations fighting to improve wages and working conditions for agricultural workers all along the food chain, from harvest to packaging to transport to sales. He’d been soaking information up like a sponge, he explained, learning _“sae much”_ that he could apply to the folks back home. Claire couldn’t help but smile as she’d listened to him talk about it; his whole body had radiated enthusiasm, his broad hands gesticulating animatedly as he babbled on and on, his whole face lit up like a child’s at Christmas.  

“I know you didn’t get to finish your internship,” she continued, her gut wrenching with guilt _(Christ, yet another loss she could count herself responsible for)_. “But that’s… that’s not going to stop you. I know you, Jamie Fraser. Once you put your mind to something, God help the person who tries to stand in your way. You’ll do it. You’ll get it up and running, I know you will. And you’re going to help... _so many_ people. So many good, honest, hard-working people. And knowing you’re... making a difference — _helping,_ somehow — it will give your life so much meaning. Purpose.”

She fell quiet for a time, lost in her vision of the future she imagined for him; all of her hopes for the life he would build from the ashes of the one she’d ruined. As she daydreamed, she absently stroked Jamie’s hair, tears rolling silently down her cheeks and onto his fevered skin. 

“And then,” she whispered. “And then, one day… when you least expect it… you’ll meet a woman.” A smile stretched over her quivering lips, even as she felt something vital break at the very core of her being. “And she’ll be… so _kind,_ Jamie. Funny. Intelligent. Beautiful. She will be… _everything_ you deserve.” A hot, salty lump swelled in her throat until she could no longer speak around it; the last few words were simply mouthed silently against the soft pink curve of his earlobe. “And she’ll take your breath away.”

She hadn’t known it was possible: feeling so utterly shattered, yet so at peace, so _hopeful_ at the same time. Though the words pouring out of her were intended to reassure Jamie, she found them to be just as much of a balm to her own soul. 

He would be alright after all of this. 

More than alright — he would thrive.

She could see it play out with such perfect clarity; envision the hundreds of photographs he would tuck into another leather-bound photo album — stills of a life filled with so much love, so much joy. Trips to the beach, the forest, the mountains; a garden wedding drenched in sunlight; a honeymoon somewhere tropical, somewhere warm. Turning slowly on a dance floor, his bride’s head tucked into the curve of his shoulder; stolen kisses under a sky full of stars; the newlyweds painting their first home together, spending more time laughing and spattering one another than the walls.  

After a while, the free-flow of tears rinsed away the worst of the burn in Claire’s throat. She tucked her nose into the curve of Jamie’s neck when she could speak again, murmuring hoarsely, “You’ll make such a beautiful life together, Jamie. A home. Children, maybe.” A broken smile trembled at the corners of her mouth; somehow, that particular thought made her heart ache even more than the rest. “I think you’ll want children. Then you… you can surprise them with those giant blow-up snowmen at Christmas. Put lights up on every tree on the property.” She released her breath in a tight, choked laugh against his skin. “And you can… you can teach them to play Star Wars with you. Make those ridiculous lightsaber noises while you bash them over the heads with pool noodles.”

At long last, Claire lifted her head, sniffling and dabbing her eyes and nose on the sleeve of her sleep shirt. She drew in as deep of a breath as her aching lungs would allow, then released it in a controlled, pursed-lip stream. The hand moving gently through his hair shifted down to his stubbled chin, a curled finger stroking back and forth over the soft bristles. 

“So, you see,” she breathed, trying to hold a smile, “It’s like I said, Jamie, you have… so much to look forward to.” She felt her throat threatening to constrict again and swallowed hard, forcing her choked voice past it. “So don’t go anywhere, alright? Just stay with me. Please.” 

There was no way of knowing whether he’d heard her at all; whether he had any sort of comprehension of her desperate plea. But his chest kept rising and falling in measured breaths, timed by the ventilator, and the pulse at the hollow of his throat was rapid, but strong.

And so her vigil began. 

 

* * *

  
  


Claire had no sense of how much time elapsed before Jamie’s nurse finally returned to the room. Her head turned at once to the familiar whir-and-squelch of the hand sanitizer dispenser, and she looked up through tired, puffy eyes at a middle-aged woman who appeared just as exhausted as she was. 

“You must be Claire,” she said softly. At Claire’s look of surprise, the nurse smiled and gestured at Jamie. “He was asking for you, before we intubated. Are you his wife?”

Claire froze, feeling her stomach flip and her scalp prickle. She barely had time to process one wave of emotion ( _He wanted me. He asked for me. And I wasn’t here.)_ before the second, more devastating one struck:

 _I’m_ not _his wife. And visiting hours for non-immediate family are long over._

Her mind reeled, trying to figure out how on earth to answer. 

She could lie, of course; say she was his wife and pray to God that the nurse wouldn’t check his record. Or she supposed she could simply flash her badge, explain that she had been Jamie’s nurse for a long time, and that she was just checking in on him. But _checking in_ was temporary; Claire had no intention of leaving his side. 

She opened and closed her mouth, floundering. The muscles in her face tightened in desperation as her gaze moved from the nurse’s face to Jamie’s and stayed there, watching him breathe as though her own survival depended on it. 

“No,” she admitted finally, her voice so hoarse, so strained it was nearly unrecognizable. “No, I… he’s my…” 

_Your what, Beauchamp?_

_Patient?_

_Friend?_

_Victim?_

_The love of your life?_

_What exactly is the end to that sentence?_

She shook her head faintly for a moment, at a loss. At long last, she tore her gaze away from him and looked helplessly back up at the nurse, silently begging, her eyes brimming with tears. “He’s all I have.” 

It was the truth. 

Perhaps the nurse saw that. 

Perhaps she was just a compassionate soul.

Either way, her features softened, and she took a step forward to place a steadying hand on Claire’s shoulder. 

“Lucky guy,” she said with a tender smile. When Claire continued to look up at her, wide-eyed and uncertain, the nurse soothed, “I’m not gonna kick you out, honey, if that’s what you’re worried about. We let family stay at the bedside 24 hours a day, and our rule of thumb around here is that family is whoever the patient says it is. And, uh…” She tipped her chin up at the monitor above Jamie’s bed. “I think my friend Jamie here has made it pretty clear what he thinks.”

Claire blinked furiously to try to clear the tears from her eyes so she could read the bleary numbers at the side of the screen. “What do you mean?”

“I mean those are the best vitals I’ve seen since he’s got here. Heart rate’s down, blood pressure’s stabilizing, and he’s high-satting on that vent. I can probably even turn his oxygen down a little bit here. So whatever it is you’re doing, I want you to just keep on doing that. You keep on talking to him, holding his hand, telling him he looks like an idiot with all those wires taped to his head, okay?” She winked, chuckling good-naturedly.

Claire managed a weak exhale somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “Yes.” She sniffled, a humming noise catching in her throat as she took Jamie’s too-warm hand between her own. “Yes, I can do that.” 

The nurse clapped her on the shoulder, then eased behind her to grab the blood pressure cuff off the wall. “And in the meantime — ‘scuse me — I’m just gonna sneak on in behind you here and grab a set of vitals. After that, I’m gonna get some blood from him and tweak some of the settings on his IV drips, okay?” As she wrapped the blood pressure cuff around Jamie’s arm, she gave him a wry smile, then glanced conspiratorially over her shoulder at Claire. “I think between the two of us gals, we’re gonna get you sorted right the heck out here, Jamie my friend.”

There were not adequate words to convey the depths of Claire’s gratitude as she watched the veteran ICU nurse work, listened to her mutter to herself under her breath in a stream of consciousness that left little doubt as to her extensive knowledge and proficiency. She cursed at the vent and smacked at it when it beeped at her; flicked at almost-microscopic bubbles in Jamie’s IV tubing; worked out his medication dosages through barely-moving lips — eyes narrowed, brows raised in concentration — before double checking the math with an actual, physical old-fashioned calculator. She prattled on to Jamie in a conversational tone as she worked, explaining everything she was doing and wisecracking with him as though he were an active participant in the conversation.

Until that moment, Claire hadn’t realized how desperately she needed to share the load, to be able to relinquish her white-knuckled grip on Jamie’s care to someone she trusted inherently to do right by him as his nurse. Much of the equipment in the room was foreign and mystifying to her; she hadn’t seen or used it since her ICU rotation in nursing school, years ago. She was over her head and frightened, and the palpable, joint-loosening _relief_ of having someone there to take charge of the minutiae of Jamie’s care made her want to bow her head and weep. 

It meant that in the precious little time she had left with him, she had a small window of opportunity where she could just be his Claire. His Sassenach. 

The woman who loved him.

When he woke, that window would close. She knew that. She wouldn’t leave him again — _couldn’t,_ not after what had happened in her absence. Her duty was here, healing him, seeing him safe. But they couldn’t carry on the way they had been, either. It was why she had walked away in the first place — trying to spare him the pain of any more attachment to her, knowing full well the revelation waiting for him at the finish line of this long and horrific hospital stay. 

There was only one choice left, one option. No matter how it broke her heart, she would somehow need to find the strength to do what she had thus far failed to accomplish: pull back from him. Create distance. Function exclusively in the role of his nurse, even as she watched the hurt and confusion settle over his face. 

He’d understand soon enough. 

But for now…

For now, under the protective veil of sedation, she had this one last chance to be with him. 

To study him, memorize him. To tuck away every last sensory detail into the most sacred places of her heart; the lines of his palms, the smell of his skin, the texture of his stubble against her fingertips.

To hold him, breathe him in. 

To rest for a time with her head on the pillow next to his, her face tucked into the curve of his neck and her hand resting over the reassuring thump of his heart. 

To whisper all the things she’d never get a chance to say to him when he could truly hear her.

And to say goodbye.

 


	21. Hers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _A/N: What seems like an eternity later: hello, my friends, and welcome to part 1 of the double update I promised! Thank you so incredibly much for your patience in waiting for this story to return - I very much wanted to make sure I got the nuances and emotional beats of these chapters right. Hopefully it was worth the wait, and I appreciate all your kind words of encouragement in the meantime. The next chapter should be up either Sunday or Monday; just needs some polishing and betaing. I didn't get a chance to respond to the reviews on the previous chapter yet, but I promise I will; I read and appreciated every word!_

“Okay,  _ so _ …” 

Claire barely had time to lift her heavy-lidded eyes before a takeout box was shoved into her hands. She blinked at it vacantly for a moment, her mind too foggy to grasp much of anything, while the veritable whirlwind that was Gillian Edgars pulled over Jamie’s bedside table and began to slap down one highlighted, color-coded spreadsheet after another. 

“I’ve got this about 90% sorted, but let me preface this by sayin’ I’m no’ a feckin’ miracle worker, alright? I’ve got ye covered for all but three days, and I’m tryin’ to crack those too, but I cannae promise ye anything.”

Claire dragged the heel of her hand over her eyes, then frowned uncomprehendingly at the papers in front of her. “What? I don’t… what are you on about, G?”

Ginger eyebrows arched in silent judgment as she gave her friend a once-over. “When was the last time ye slept, hen?”

“I’ve been sleeping,” Claire protested feebly, lifting the tab on the styrofoam takeout container to peek inside. At the look Gillian shot her, she clarified with a dismissive shrug, “Here and there. Oh my God, you absolute saint, is this pastrami?”

“Corned beef. Reuben on rye, extra swiss, dressing on the side. I stole some of yer sweet potato fries, sorry. Procurer’s tax.”

“I could kiss you,” Claire muttered before taking a wide, jaw-cracking bite of the sandwich. 

“Mm, rain check, love.” Gillian scrunched her nose in playful distaste. “Ye’ll notice I brought ye this particular meal while Jamie’s still out of it and doesna have to deal wi’ yer sauerkraut breath.” Her lip curled in a smirk as she reached over to pat Jamie’s leg. “Dinna say I never did anything for ye,  _ a bhalaich.” _

Claire rolled her eyes, and Gillian’s smirk broadened when she caught it in her peripheral vision. “I’ll bring some mints in wi’ me next time,” she added, leaning over to speak near Jamie’s ear in an exaggerated whisper. “Dinna fash.”

Refusing to rise to the bait, Claire finished chewing unhurriedly. She allowed her eyes to glaze over, her face carefully expressionless, as she attempted to smother the maelstrom that had swirled to life in her belly at the mere allusion to sharing breath with him again. 

At the sensory memories conjured without her will or consent. 

_ The humid warmth shuddering over her tongue, almost close enough to taste; the prickling heat that had singed her lips and breasts, left her slick and burning between her legs; the ache for him, the longing that was ancient, primal, and far beyond her control.  _

And underpinning it all, the  _ shame _ — the reverberating, shattering pain that accompanied the knowledge of what that near-kiss had cost them both. 

She swallowed her mouthful of food a bit more forcefully than necessary. 

“You’re hilarious,” she deadpanned, unable to meet her friend’s gaze. Eager to change the subject, she gestured at the papers Gillian had scattered across the table. “So… what is all of this, exactly?”

Even without looking, she could  _ feel _ the smugness radiating from Gillian, who apparently wasn’t the least bit convinced by the show of nonchalance. Thankfully, for once in her bloody life, the Scot chose to let the subject drop. 

_“This,”_ Gill drawled, stepping back over to the table and spreading her hand in a sweeping gesture over the papers, “is a work of feckin’ _art,_ if I do say so myself. Now, ye dinna need to know all the details; it’s probably better that ye don’t. But let’s just say I called in a few favors here and there. And when that didna work, I reminded a few of the holdover day shift bitches of the dirt I have on them that would absolutely feckin’ _ruin_ them if it got back to management. Suddenly they were _much_ more cooperative, wouldn’t ye ken?”

If it was possible to actually, physically  _ feel _ the blood drain from one’s face, it happened in that moment. 

“Oh God,” Claire rasped, with the acute sensation that a lump of ice had lodged itself in her esophagus. “What the hell did you do?”   

Gill made a guttural, distinctly Scottish noise of derision. “Found a way for you to keep yer feckin’  _ job, _ that’s what I did.” She planted a hand on her hip, quirking an eyebrow. “And I believe the phrase ye’re lookin’ for is  _ ‘thank ye.’” _

Claire continued to stare at the highlighted pages in front of her — belatedly arriving at the realization that it was some sort of breakdown of their work schedule — her mouth moving wordlessly, at a complete loss. It was all she could do to sit in stunned silence as Gillian began to describe, in meticulous detail, how she’d managed to bribe, beg, or blackmail various nurses into taking Jamie Fraser as a patient, and turning a blind eye to Claire’s presence at his bedside. 

Every day for the next two weeks. 

Long enough for her to see him safe. 

Long enough for her to get him  _ home. _

And as she listened to her meddlesome friend spell out each of those precious remaining days with Jamie, Claire found her horror gradually beginning to abate — giving way first to shock, and then, finally, to a deep, almost pained gratitude. 

Because unorthodox (and morally questionable) as her methods might be, the motivation behind them was clear: Gillian was doing this for her. Putting her own neck on the line to help a friend, because she knew how desperately Claire needed to stay with him. 

The ginger was still babbling, going off on a side-rant about one of the day shift nurses whose arm she’d had to twist  _ particularly _ hard to go along with this scheme of hers, when Claire suddenly reached out to touch her wrist. 

“Gill,” she whispered. 

The Scot broke off suddenly into a stark, profound silence. Claire tried to say more, failed, and settled for squeezing her friend’s wrist instead. 

Gillian’s free hand lifted to cover hers and squeeze gently in return. “It’s no’ perfect,” she apologized, her own voice suddenly gone quiet, tender. “There are still a few gaps I’m tryin’ to fill, and I promise I’ll do my best, but…” 

“It’s wonderful,” Claire managed. “It means… more than you could possibly know.”

“Oh, I think I have some idea, hen,” Gill murmured, reaching up to smooth the frizzy curls back from Claire’s temple. For once, there was no smugness in her tone; only sympathy, understanding. “And besides, it’s no’ just for you, ye ken. Jamie needs ye with him.” She leaned over to pat his leg, smiling fondly. “And since I went to all that feckin’ trouble to save yer miserable hide, figured I’d best see it through, eh?”

When she looked back over, Claire met her gaze and held it as tears welled in her eyes, needing her to see — truly see — how much it mattered. 

“Thank you,” she whispered. “For everything, Gill.”

“Ach.” Gillian reached out to clasp her in a hug, pressed her lips brusquely to Claire’s cheekbone, then pulled back again, holding her at arm’s length by the shoulders. “Thank me when we manage to pull it off, aye? You two can name yer firstborn after me. Gillian if it’s a lass, Gilbert for a lad.” After a half-beat of consideration, she added with an eye-roll and a shrug, as if it were self-explanatory, “And make me godmother.  _ Obviously.” _

Claire tried to smile at the joke; tried to ignore the pain that ripped through her like a knife at the thought of the delicate red-haired newborn who would never be.

“Obviously,” she echoed, with just enough sarcasm to mask the break in her voice.

 

* * *

 

It was like being underwater, he reckoned. Suspended somewhere far below the surface of a loch, adrift and weightless in the murky depths. 

Occasionally he’d catch a distant flicker of light, a muted murmur of sound, but he was neutral to them; he made only a vague notation of their existence with bland detachment. Oblivion was an old friend of Jamie’s. He didn’t fight it. 

It was safe here. Comfortable. 

Beyond the surface was pain. He did remember that much. Terrible, skull-splitting pain.  

So when he felt himself beginning to rise — floating slowly and steadily upward by no volition of his own — his first instinct was to resist. To stay submerged, to sink back down again. 

But then he heard her voice. 

_ <Jamie?> _

Lost in the darkness, he couldn’t conjure her face. It was there, right on the edge of his consciousness, but…

_ <Jamie, can you hear me?> _

Aye, he heard her. 

Knew her.

Her name... God, what was her name?

_ <Can you squeeze my hand?> _

Up there, he realized. She was up there. 

He’d find her if he went.

He hesitated only a fraction of a second, as his soul registered what his mind could not.

_ Hers. _

He was hers.

And so he began to rise, willingly following that Siren’s call toward the surface. 

The perception of the boundaries of his body dawned gradually; the pressure of gravity seemed to grow steadily heavier as he became aware of the weight of his bones, his muscles, his skin. 

And the moment he rediscovered where his own flesh ended, he found where hers began.

Her fingers were curled under the limp weight of his palm — the pads of her fingers lifting, circling, while the firmer pressure of her thumb rolled back and forth across his knuckles.

“Can you feel my hand?” she asked. 

Her voice was close now. Sharp, clear; no longer muffled by the fathomless depths around him. If he could just turn his head, open his eyes, he… 

“Squeeze my fingers, Jamie. Squeeze if you can hear me.”

It seemed such a simple request. He could  _ feel _ her. He could feel his fingers, and hers. 

_ Squeeze, damn ye,  _ he willed his hand.  _ Do as she asks. _

It seemed a small eternity before his nervous system finally cooperated — and even then, it wasn’t a squeeze so much as a twitch. Still, he heard the breath slam out of her in a strangled sound of relief. 

“There! He did it. He just did it!” He could hear the smile in her voice as she gave him an encouraging squeeze in return. “Jamie, can you do it again? Can you squeeze my fingers again?”

It was easier the second time. Faster. His fingers clenched around hers, and this time, he didn’t let go. 

Neither did she. 

Another woman began speaking to him; he didn’t recognize her voice. She asked him to wiggle his toes, so he did. A few moments later, there was a great deal of fuss around his face. Something was ripped from his cheeks, there was movement and noise, then  _ pressure, _ and...

He jerked on impulse, gagging violently when something grated along the back of his throat. He began to thrash, wrenching his head from side to side, trying to escape it.

Then he felt  _ Her _ hand wrap tightly around the curve of his skull, steadying him.

“Easy,” she soothed, her breath warm against his ear. “Easy. Shh. Hold still, Jamie. Almost done.” 

Even as the gagging sensation intensified, he stilled beneath her palm, gripping her other hand like a lifeline. 

He trusted her. 

And just as she’d promised, it was over soon enough. 

Something was strapped to his face, and cool air started blasting into his nostrils. But whatever had been in his throat, gagging him, was gone. 

Still, she held him. Cradled him.

“Well done,” she whispered as her fingertips began to move in gentle circles through his hair. “That’s it. That’s it, Jamie. Shh. You’re all done. It’s all done now. Shh.”

He settled slowly, his hammering heartbeat easing. He relaxed into the comfort of her voice, her caress, and finally drifted again, safe in her hands. 

When he came to the second time, he felt…  _ more.  _ The senses that had been dulled before came sharply into focus as he woke; he could hear the familiar, low hum of ICU machinery; registered the dry grittiness of his tongue, the terrible, sour taste in his mouth; felt the crisp, starched sheets beneath him and the rotating pressure of the wee cuffs on his calves as they inflated and then released again, one at a time. They were meant to keep the circulation flowing to his legs when he had to lie still for a long time, he remembered. To prevent blood clots. Claire had explained it to h—

_ Claire. _

His eyes snapped open. 

He was instantly blinded; he saw only harsh, fluorescent white light that burned his retinas and made him quickly clamp his eyelids shut again. 

But it was long enough for her to see.

“He’s awake!” she announced excitedly, just beside him, to his left. He tilted toward her on instinct, like a plant turning toward the sun. Her hand was still wrapped around his; she massaged his fingers, then squeezed his palm.

He squeezed back. 

He heard her shuddering exhale, felt the faintest shiver of it touch the tiny hairs on the side of his neck. Her voice was quiet now, meant only for him. “Try again, Jamie,” she murmured. “Go slowly. I’m right here.” 

More aware now of how bright his surroundings were — like stepping from pitch darkness into blinding sunlight — he did as she suggested, and barely cracked his lashes, squinting. The light still seemed painfully bright, but he forced himself to endure it, to let his pupils adjust, knowing that when they did, he’d find…

_ There. _

The most brilliant shade of gold he’d ever seen. 

Irises the color of fine, aged whisky. The same ones that had been haunting his dreams for weeks. 

The golden pools shimmered with tears as he locked onto them now, but she was smiling; he could see the delicate lines crinkle around the corners of her eyes.

“There you are,” she whispered. He tried to say her name, but his lips moved soundlessly, the breath wheezing ineffectually through a parched, raw throat. She was moving the moment she saw it, already anticipating what he needed. 

“Here.” She leaned forward, holding a spoon with a single ice chip up to his lips. He slurped it up gratefully, eyes shining at hers in silent appreciation as he rolled it around his sour, gritty mouth. He swallowed that wee bit of melted ice with a wince, then opened his lips to her for another chip. They continued that way in silence for several more minutes, watching one another closely. When he was finished, she knew at once; she set the cup and spoon aside and grabbed a tube of chapstick from the side table to dab on his lips.

Behind him, the other woman — the one whose voice he didn’t recognize — chuckled. “I don’t even know what they’re paying me for. You’ve got this, girl.”

Claire smiled sheepishly, turning to look at the woman over her shoulder. It was only with the faint tinge of pink that colored her cheeks that Jamie realized, with a sudden, sharp pang, how pale she was. He searched her face with a more scrutinizing eye then, moving past the initial swell of relief and into concern. 

She was white as a sheet, save the dark, bruise-like rings under her eyes. Her own lips were chapped, perhaps worse than his —  _ Christ, was she not drinking? _ If she wasn’t staying hydrated, he could almost be sure she wasn’t eating enough, and...

Protectiveness raged to life like a column of wildfire in his chest, scorching the lining of his lungs and burning a trail up his windpipe, past his swollen vocal cords, until he managed to rasp out,  _ “Sassenach.”  _

Claire’s head whipped back to face him again, whisky eyes round with surprise. 

“Did he say something?” the other woman — a nurse, he gathered — asked, taking a step forward.

A trembling smile stretched over Claire’s mouth as she held his gaze, nodding slowly. “Yes,” she breathed. “He did.”

Jamie knew fine well that he didn’t have enough of a voice yet to remind her — chastise her,  _ beg _ her — to take care of herself, see to her own needs. So he gripped her hand in his for emphasis, trailing his gaze slowly over her swollen, sleepless eyes, her sunken cheeks, her parched mouth.  

And she understood exactly what he meant. Her expression softened, saddened. “I’m fine, Jamie,” she whispered. “Don’t worry about me.”

He gave her a sharp look, but had no time for any further rebuttal before the nurse stepped in. 

“Well, welcome back, there, friend! I’m not sure if you remember me, but we met the night you came down to this floor. I’m Lynn, I’m your nurse again this morning. Do you mind if I ask you a couple of quick questions?” 

Jamie’s gaze flickered from Claire, who nodded, to the nurse. He swallowed hard, and managed to whisper hoarsely, “Aye.”   

“What’s your name?”

He answered without any hesitation, though his voice faded in and out over the vowels. “James Fraser.”

“Good. And do you know where you are right now, James?”

“Hospital.”

“Do you know which one?”

He nodded, swallowed. Glanced at Claire, who immediately read the silent request and spoon-fed him another ice chip. Once he’d forced it past his raw throat, he managed a bit more steadily, “Mass General. In Boston.”

“Excellent. And do you know what year it is?”

He thought for a moment, then arched an eyebrow. “How, ah… how long’ve I been out?”

“Four days,” the nurse supplied with a chuckle.

“Ah.” Jamie smiled weakly. “Still 2018, then.” 

“That’s the one,” Lynn agreed, giving him a broad smile and a wink. “Alright, my friend, alert and oriented x 3 right out of the gate. That’s what I like to hear. I’m gonna keep asking you those same obnoxious questions a couple times an hour, okay? Just go with me on it, I know it’s a pain in the butt.”

“Aye, s’fine,” he agreed. He did as he was told, following commands as she went through the rest of her exam, checking reflexes and responses, listening to his heart and lungs and stomach, taking vitals. She seemed very pleased with her findings; kept murmuring compliments to him as she went along, making wee notations on the margins of her paper. At last she folded it back up again and stuffed it in the pocket of her scrub top, told him she’d be off to do her charting, and reminded him that she was just outside the door if he needed anything.

A kind and competent nurse, to be sure. He nodded his silent thanks to her, but wasn’t the least bit sorry to see her leave. 

The moment he heard the telltale squelch of the hand sanitizer dispenser and the slide of the door closing behind her, his eyes returned to Claire’s. 

He knew at once that something had changed. 

At some point in the past few minutes, there had been a shift in Claire. She’d watched the entirety of the nurse’s assessment in silence, hanging back, just out of his line of sight. And now... 

A small crease formed between Jamie’s brows as he studied her. She was easy enough to read; always had been. He could see the conflict in her, plain as day. Sadness. Guilt. Trepidation.

Hurt.

And then he realized. Remembered.

The last time they’d been alone together, she had leaned in to kiss him. 

And he’d stopped her. 

For her own sake, for the career that meant everything to her, he’d stopped her. But it wasn’t because he didn’t  _ want her _ , not because he didn’t  _ love her _ with every fiber of his being. And he’d never had a chance to tell her that, and now she must think... 

_ Christ. _

He stretched his hand out for hers, his voice a grated whisper. “Claire.”

Her gaze darted in his direction, but she wouldn’t look at him directly. She wrapped her arms around herself, and he saw the goosebumps prickling her skin.

“I owe you an apology, Jamie.” 

“No,” he breathed at once, shaking his head. He tried to prop himself up, but his sluggish limbs wouldn’t cooperate. “No, Sassenach. It’s me who should—” 

She held up her palm. “Let me finish. Please.”

Reluctantly, he went limp against the pillow, his mouth clamped shut. A single, faint nod from him, and she continued.  

“I was out of line. What I did was extremely unprofessional, and I’m sorry I put you in the position to have to—”

He couldn’t take it. 

Shaking his head vehemently, he blurted out, “I should have kissed ye.”

Claire went stone still for a moment, her eyes trained on the floor. He could see her pulse hammering in the hollow of her throat, watched as the long white column constricted with a swallow. If it was possible, she went even paler.  

But he was in too deep to stop now. 

“I promised ye I wouldn’t do anything that could cause ye to lose yer job. But if you think for a moment that I didna want—”

Now it was Claire’s turn to interrupt. Tears were gathering in her eyes, glittering in the light. “No,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper. “No, you were right, Jamie.” She drew her arms tighter around herself. “You were right to stop me.”

Her pain was palpable; he could feel it as surely as if it were his own. It burned like coals in his chest, a blackened heat scorching a hole straight through him. 

If he’d been able, he would have risen from the bed then and there, taken her in his arms and kissed her with everything in him. 

But all he could do was hold his hand out to her, watching helplessly as she withdrew further and further into herself. 

“Sassenach,” he croaked. 

Her chin quivered, and a single tear escaped down her cheek. She brushed it away quickly, then refolded her arms over her front. 

“My job,” she said, slowly and deliberately, “is to keep you safe. To help you heal. To  _ protect _ you. And because of my own…  _ selfish _ impulses, I failed in my most basic duties as your nurse.” She shook her head faintly, her eyes haunted. “You could have  _ died, _ Jamie. You very nearly did.”

“No,” he barked, managing to get himself all the way up on his elbow this time. _“No._ Ye canna blame yerself for this, Claire. Alright? _Look at me.”_ She resisted for a moment, her jaw set in self-fury, but finally dragged her eyes up to meet his. When she did, he held them, his gaze boring into hers. “I got sick. It’s no one’s _fault._ And even if ye had been here, there’s nothin’ ye could have done—” 

“I most certainly would!” she snapped, her voice raw and wavering. _ “I _ would have caught it earlier.” Her lips quivered as she jabbed a finger at her own chest.  _ “I  _ would have known something was wrong in enough time to get you help before any of this happened!”

Jamie’s arms ached, physically  _ ached _ to hold her, to bring her to his chest and stroke her back until she steadied. 

“Aye, shh, aye, that may be so. That may be so,” he murmured, trying to soothe her with his voice if he couldn’t reach her with his body. “But I’m _fine_ now, Sassenach. Hm? Look at me. I’m just fine.”

“No thanks to me,” she said coldly, and turned away to snatch a tissue from the box on his bedside stand. She wiped her eyes and nose with her back turned to him.

“Ye were here when I woke, and I needed ye,” he said softly. “Ye’re here now, Sassenach.”

He watched in pained silence as she drew in a deep breath, held it for a moment, then released it in a shaky exhale. When she turned back to him again, her eyes and the tip of her nose were red, but the tears were gone. 

Her chin was set in quiet determination. 

“Yes,” she agreed, nodding slowly. To his surprise, she came back over to sit in the chair beside him. “I’m here now.” 

She stared at her hands, folded in her lap, for a long while. When she looked back up at him again, he could see the resolve in her face — the fierce determination of the champion who had always defended him, fought for him.

She held his gaze steadily as she spoke. “I won’t leave you again. Not for any longer than I have to. I’m going to get you home to your family, Jamie Fraser. I promise you. I’ll see you safe no matter what happens.”

In that moment, he wanted nothing more than to tell her that  _ she _ was his family now, too. His home. 

That he loved her. Desperately.

But she was promising to stay. So there would be another opportunity for it — a better one than this — when he could draw her close and give her a promise of his own. 

In the meantime, she needed to give him this one. It was written in every line of her face.

So he gentled his eyes in understanding and silently raised his hand between them, offering her the crook of his pinky finger. 

He saw a flash, then — fleeting and brilliant as a lightning strike — of raw emotion so powerful it stole the breath from his lungs. It turned Claire’s golden eyes molten, blew her pupils wide. 

Neither of them breathed as she curled her little finger around his and squeezed tight. 

She dropped her lashes when she let go, letting her hand fall limp into her lap. 

It was the last glimpse he saw of his Sassenach for a long, long time. 


	22. Drowning

Jenny had sent him an article on Facebook a few summers ago, when he’d expressed an interest in taking his wee namesake to the beach for the first time.

**Drowning Doesn’t Look Like Drowning.** _In 10 percent of drownings, adults are nearby but have no idea the victim is dying. Here’s what to look for._

It was her passive-aggressive way of reminding him to keep his eyes on the lad, he supposed — as if he were likely to forget. Despite his annoyance at his sister’s complete lack of faith in him, he’d followed the link out of morbid curiosity.

Evidently, the tendency to thrash about and cry for help was an invention of TV and film; when truly drowning, a victim’s instinct was to go still — not kicking, not flailing, just tipping their face up, silently gasping for air whenever their mouth broke the surface. They went glassy-eyed, unable to focus, unable to cry for help, unable to do anything but try to stay alive. 

Drowning was deceptively quiet. Jamie had never forgotten that. 

And Claire Beauchamp was drowning. 

That much was abundantly clear to him. It was about the only thing that _was_ clear to him any more.

 

* * *

 

She hadn’t left his side for longer than ten minutes — the bare minimum to see to her own needs; use the restroom, shower, change, and come right back. 

Gillian had gone to her flat to pack a duffel bag of clothing and personal items, then emptied out a local convenience store of their entire stock of junk food and caffeine in a can. The snacks went mostly untouched, but Claire had been going through the Red Bull, Monster Energy drinks, and cold brew coffee at such an alarming rate that even the ICU nurse made a comment to her about giving herself a heart attack if she didn’t ease up. 

She’d slowed down a bit after that. Paced herself. 

But she still didn’t sleep. 

Not the entire time Jamie remained in the ICU.

Whenever _he_ slept, the nurses told him she watched the monitors or his chest. The moment he was awake, she was fashing over him: making him take sips of water; dabbing his face and neck with a cool washcloth; changing out his sweat-dampened sheets; helping him shave, wash up, brush his teeth, comb his hair. She “supervised” the nurses who did the dressing changes on his back, hovering and making _suggestions_ until the majority of them just handed over the supplies and let her do it. When every last one of his needs was met, she took the pencil speared through her messy bun and began to update her own personal charting. She kept a running spreadsheet of his lab values, vitals, medications — pages upon pages of notes on his daily progress and changes to his care. 

In full Velvet Hammer mode and with a tongue sharpened by sleep deprivation, she’d quickly acquired a reputation for herself in those few short days in the ICU. With her wee notes for reference, she was unafraid to challenge _anyone,_ regardless of rank, who she believed to be making poor decisions on his behalf. 

Out in the hallway, Jamie heard the medical team mutter warnings about “the wife” before they came in on rounds. He could only assume Claire must have heard them, too.

Neither one of them bothered to correct the misconception. 

But they didn’t talk about it either.

They didn’t _talk,_ really, at all.

He chalked it up to the illness, at first. The meningitis had taken its toll; in the ICU, he slept more often than not. When he was awake, what little energy he had was spent in the basic functions of eating, drinking, maintaining some semblance of personal hygiene — all at Claire’s behest, and with her hands-on help. She was with him always, attuned to his every need. And that was enough.

For a while.

It wasn’t until he transferred back to Ellison 7 that the tectonic shift became truly apparent to him. Perhaps it was being in that old, familiar environment again, surrounded by memories of a woman that were so incongruent with the one currently sitting next to him. But as he stared over at Claire’s vacant, drawn, bone-white face, it suddenly occurred to him that he hadn’t seen her smile in days. 

She was beyond the point of exhaustion, he reasoned. Subsisting on caffeine alone, and at the end of her rope. 

So he put his foot down. Hard.

From that point on, he refused to eat a single bite of food unless Claire did; refused to drink his water unless she took a sip of hers; refused to take a nap unless she closed her eyes, too. He mentioned, more than once, that he would be _fine_ if she wanted to go home to sleep for a few hours — that he’d be right here when she got back. 

It only made her worse.

Any time he expressed concern for her, asked a question about her, tried to engage her in conversation that extended beyond his immediate needs or medical care, she deflected, her face going blank.

With each day that passed, she was retreating further and further into herself. And the harder Jamie tried to get through to her, the more she shut down. 

He tried everything. _Everything_ he could think of to reach her, to bring out his Sassenach again. 

He turned on HGTV, threw her knowing looks and made wisecracks any time the new homeowners used subway tile in their renovations. She smiled faintly, indulgently, without any warmth or humor, before her face fell again. 

So he tried telling her stories, talking for what felt like hours on end simply to fill the gaping silence. He told her about Lallybroch — about the land, the history, the barn and all of the animals, the neighbors, his family and friends. That worked a bit better; her eyes lost their glaze whenever he talked about home. It was safe to talk about _himself,_ he learned through trial and error, but the second he tried to include her — to ask her about her own life or experiences — she went cold again, giving him minimalist answers designed to either end the conversation or re-route it back to him. 

He had no idea what to make of it. 

He understood that she was wracking herself with guilt over the meningitis. No amount of reassurances from him had been able to soothe that hurt. There was no doubt in his mind that all of this, on some level, was over-compensation for what she perceived to be her failings as his nurse. She outright refused to leave his side; was wasting away before his very eyes, trying to make sure that he was tended to, safe and healthy. _That_ he could help, at least, by proving to her that he was _fine_ — adhering to his prescribed routine, doing his physical and occupational therapy, eating and drinking and sleeping on command (so long as she did, too). 

But if it was guilt alone that made her pull away from him, it should have been getting _better_ as his health improved. Not worse.

And by the time a week had gone by, she would barely look at him. 

They sat four feet away from one another in stone cold silence, pretending to watch the telly or read. Whenever he needed something, Claire leapt up to help him — touched him as minimally as possible, avoided eye contact completely, and then sat back down again.

It was torture.

Slow, relentless, excruciating torture.

He never could have imagined that there was something worse than being parted from her for days on end — missing her desperately, physically _aching_ for her touch, her voice, her smile. 

He was wrong. 

Having the woman he loved sitting there with him, _right there,_ watching her suffer and being completely unable to reach her, was a whole new dimension of hell. 

 

* * *

  
  
On the tenth night after their return from the ICU, Claire finally ran out of paid time off, and had no choice but to start picking up her shifts again. She took him as one of her patients, of course, thanks to Gillian’s persistent meddling — worked her first twelve-hour night shift, went to shower in the locker room, changed into her own clothes, and immediately returned to his bedside. For all the good it would do, Jamie tried to argue that she should go home and get some sleep. Claire shook her head and drew her feet up under her in the stiff recliner, insisting that she could nap there, like always.   

When he returned from his morning physical therapy session — up and walking again, _thank Christ,_ with Shariah just behind him, holding a gait belt around his waist — Jamie found Claire curled up in a ball, passed out cold, finally exhausted enough that the noise and bustle of the busy hospital floor didn’t wake her. 

The physical therapist cast her a look of pursed-lip disapproval as she helped Jamie back into bed, humming a soft _mm-mm_ of concern.

“That baby needs to go home and sleep,” she muttered under her breath. 

Jamie gave a stoic nod. “I ken,” he agreed quietly, studying Claire’s face with a pained expression. “I’ve tried to get her to go. She won’t.”

Shariah helped him get his blankets and pillows situated, then glanced back over at Claire again, shaking her head. “Girl’s got it bad.”

Jamie continued to stare at her sleeping form in silence, his jaw tight and his chest aching. “I’m no’ so sure about that,” he whispered at last. 

Shariah craned her neck back to look at him with exaggerated skepticism, her eyebrows disappearing beneath her fringe. “Do you see any of the other nurses giving up their free time to stay with a patient past their shift?” He pressed his lips into a line, and she shook her head again. “Mm-mm, honey. Ain’t nobody fooled around here. Including you.”

He didn’t have the words to explain, or the energy to try. So he simply gave an ambiguous grunt, thanked her for the help, and continued to stare at Claire’s hunched form until the door clicked shut behind the physical therapist, leaving them alone again.

Exhausted from the workout of PT and starting to drift off himself, it wasn’t until Jamie’s eyes suddenly snapped open that he even realized they’d closed.

A faint sound of distress had come from the chair in front of him, raising the fine hairs along his arms, jolting him instantly and fully awake. 

The muscles of Claire’s face, smooth and relaxed in sleep, twitched once, her brows knitting then going slack again. Jamie held perfectly still, watching. Another few seconds and it happened again, her whimper muffled by the fist curled against her mouth. 

_Another nightmare_. 

She’d been having them a lot lately. It seemed half the time she managed to doze off, she jerked awake again shortly thereafter, breathless and shaking. Of course, she wouldn’t talk to him about it; always said she was fine, then went to go get herself another cup of coffee.

But she wasn’t waking up this time.

Moving slowly, Jamie pushed back his covers and wriggled his legs free from the sheets, easing them over the side of the bed. He’d be yelled at, he knew — by Claire, by his nurse, by the PTs — if they caught him trying to get up on his own. 

But the bone-deep instinct to comfort her overrode any thought of consequence.

Teeth gritted, he pushed himself up on stiff, tired muscles, crossed the four shuffling steps to the chair, and carefully eased himself down onto one knee beside her. For a moment he simply watched her sleep, silently tracing the lines of her face with his eyes. 

_Christ,_ she was so beautiful. 

Swimming in an old, faded, too-large sweatshirt, exhausted, deathly pale, and undernourished, she was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

Twice, Jamie’s hand rose at his side and then dropped again. He wanted... _God,_ he wanted to… 

But if she woke… 

Claire’s face twitched again in her sleep, and this time her whole body jerked, curling in as if to protect herself. 

His hand didn’t falter a third time. 

It was just the backs of his fingers at first; a feather-light brush against the apple of her cheek. When Claire tilted her face toward his hand, he froze, certain he must have woken her. He held his breath and waited through several pounding heartbeats, watching to see if she’d open her eyes. 

She didn’t.

Tentatively… one slow, painstaking millimeter at a time... he began to rotate his hand, easing it toward the warmth of her skin. 

When his palm finally settled against the curve of her cheek, she made a soft, desperate sound in the back of her throat.

Jamie knew that sound. He’d made it himself the first time she reached out to comfort him, when the very bones of him were sore with grief. 

As she nuzzled closer into the flesh of his palm, he couldn’t help but wonder when the last time was that anyone had touched Claire in comfort.

When he realized the answer, his wame gave a sharp, nauseating twist.

It was him. 

It had been him. 

The night she’d told him about her parents’ accident. She’d whimpered then, too — melted against him and wept as if her heart was breaking.

_Christ._

In all the time since that night, Jamie had been so lonesome for her. So very lonesome. 

It hadn’t occurred to him how lonely she must be, too. 

He had no one here in Boston. No one but her. 

But neither did she.

He began to smooth the pad of his thumb over her cheekbone, and she made another faint mewling sound, quieter this time. Eyes burning with tears, Jamie leaned down to press his lips gently to her cheek, then her temple, her hair. 

_“I’m here,”_ he whispered to her in the Gàidhlig. _“Shh, mo ghr_ _ài_ _dh. Shh... I’m right here. Nothing will harm ye.”_

She went limp as he spoke, the tension in her muscles softening like warmed wax beneath his hands. 

Desolate at the thought of losing this again, Jamie stayed beside her far longer than was wise. He knew fine well that someone would be along to check on him soon, but _ah Dhia,_ the feel of her... the silk of her cheek, the downy wisps of baby hair just in front of her ears, the flutter of warm breath between her lips…

Deeply absorbed in watching his thumb trace the edge of that petal-soft mouth, Jamie was oblivious to the moment her lashes parted. By the time he recognized that Claire was awake, looking at him — by the time he froze, his heart stuttering in his chest — whatever torrent of emotion had flashed through her eyes was lost to him. He caught only the tail end of it as she sat up, then stood, her back to him, fists balled at her sides.

For a long time, neither of them moved. 

He listened to the blood roar in his ears in the deafening silence. 

When, at long last, he braced a hand on the arm of the empty chair and began to hoist himself up, it was Claire who finally spoke.

“I think I should go home for a little while,” she said, as quiet and cold as falling snow.

Jamie stood behind her, breathing heavily from exertion. It would have taken three steps to reach her. To stop her. 

But Claire couldn’t have made it much more plain to him that she didn’t want to be stopped.  

Whatever she’d felt for him — if she ever felt anything at all — it was clearly gone. Lonely as she was, she still flinched away from his touch as if he’d stung her.

She didn’t want him anymore.

Swallowing against the lump in his throat, Jamie nodded once. 

“Aye,” he breathed, turning away from her, back to his bed. He slumped over to it and sank down on the edge of the mattress, feeling as though he were made of hollowed lead.

“Aye,” he said again, low and hoarse. “Mebbe that’s for the best.”

He couldn’t watch her go. He stared at the floor with unseeing eyes as Claire gathered her purse, her phone charger, her coat. 

“I’ll be back tonight,” she told him from the door, her own voice little more than a whisper.

The tears didn’t slip down his cheeks until the retreating sound of her boots had faded into silence.   
  


* * *

 

The nightmare always began the same way.

A sense of serene weightlessness; a tethered, floating feeling, like a tendril of seagrass drifting in a gentle ocean current.

She was peaceful. That was the terrible irony of it. 

As soon as she registered that it was happening again, Claire tried frantically to wake herself — her dream self, her current self, whichever self would respond faster.

It never worked. 

In the prison of her mind, she remembered everything; every sickening, horrifying detail. 

_The lulling motion of the car, the flicker of passing street lights overhead._

_The sudden jerk, the screech of bending metal._

_The ripping, throbbing pain where her collarbone splintered and pierced through the flesh._

_The smell of burning rubber, of fish and seaweed, of coconut-scented sunscreen, of blood._

_The roar of rushing water, the sound of her father’s voice - panicked, then sure. The warm weight of his calloused palm on her calf._

_The taste of salt, of copper, of mud and river water… then bile, as she retched at the side of the road over and over again, doubled over against the mangled remains of the steel guard rail._

_The blue and red lights of the ambulance. The silver hypothermia blanket, the firm hand that gripped the back of her head, tucking her face against the paramedic’s uniform to prevent her from watching as her parents’ bodies were dragged out of the water._

_When she turned her head to look anyway, the river was gone. She was at an intersection, a street corner. The blue and red lights still flashed all around her. The paramedics were running, calling out orders, speaking hurriedly into walkie-talkies. The arms that had been holding her were gone._

_She was alone._

_Her bare feet crunched over shattered glass, but she felt nothing. She was hollow, lifeless. Cold._

_Jamie’s blue eyes were open, trained on hers, even as the paramedics worked frantically to code him. He watched her draw near and fall to her knees beside him._

_No one else, it seemed, could see her._

_“You’re bleeding,” he whispered, his fingertips ghosting over the jut of bone protruding from her skin._

_“So are you,” she whispered back, and bent to seal her lips to his, to offer him the last breath from her empty lungs._

Claire woke in a cold sweat with her heart in her throat, all of the blankets kicked off her bed. 

She leaned over the side and retched onto the hardwood floor. 

When her stomach had wrung itself dry, she curled up on her mattress and sobbed until her ribs ached. 

_Two more days,_ she told herself over and over, repeating it like a mantra until she could breathe again. _Two more days._

Detaching from Jamie was like carving into her chest. Every day another rip of the knife through tendon or ligament, muscle or bone, cutting closer and closer to the pulsing red heart of her — to the day she’d have to surrender that, too.  

But she could endure it a little while longer. For Jamie's sake, she could endure it. 

A slow amputation of their bond would be easier for him, in the end; making herself as unappealing and uninteresting and cold as possible, so he wouldn’t want her anymore. 

That last cut would break her. But it didn’t need to break him.

He was going home. Back to his family, who would help him. Who would love and support him through the worst of it.

Two more days, and he’d be free of her. 

_Two more days,_ she told herself again, running a tremoring hand over her face. 

She was so tired. So very, very tired. 

But the horror that awaited her in sleep was almost worse than the horror in waking. So Claire dragged herself out of bed with a sigh heaved up from the very arches of her feet, cleaned up the mess on the floor, and then shuffled, aimless and zombie-like, into the kitchen. 

For a long while she just stared vacantly at the far wall, swaying slightly on her feet. Blinking herself out of it some indeterminate amount of time later, she started a kettle boiling for tea and began opening her cupboards, pulling down bowls and beaters, flour and sugar and nonstick spray.

Even after weeks without proper sleep, Claire didn’t need to consult the faded yellow index card to remember her mother’s rolled butter cookie recipe.

Jamie had told her that his mam used to make them at Christmas, too.

It was a way to fill the long, empty hours of the night. To give him a bit of joy, perhaps, in these final, excruciating days of purgatory.

She’d be quick about it. Be in and out while he was at PT.

He’d never need to know.

 

* * *

 

Whichever of the physical therapists had called off on their holiday shift, James Fraser would remain grateful to them for the rest of his days.

With only one PT onsite instead of two, there was a frantic reshuffling of schedules; Lisa popped her head in a few minutes shy of his 09:00 session to apologize and let him know that it would have to be bumped back to noon. There was no protest from Jamie; he grunted in acknowledgment and burrowed back under the covers, only too eager to return to the oblivion of sleep rather than get up and face another day in that godforsaken hospital without… 

_Claire?_

He didn’t hear her enter. She was silent as a shadow, halfway across his room before his eyes popped open. 

Evidently, the preternatural instinct that always alerted him to her presence had not been dampened by heartache or rejection. 

With one glance at her, it was immediately apparent that she had no idea he was in the room. Her face was unguarded, nervous golden eyes flicking repeatedly to the open door as if she were undertaking some covert, dangerous mission. 

In both hands, she balanced a sturdy, heavy-looking tray of homemade Christmas cookies, wrapped snugly with Saran-wrap and topped with a red bow. No tag, no note. 

She settled the tray down on the counter with a soft clink and spun on her heel to leave. 

And then she saw him.

Froze.

And Jamie’s heart stopped. 

For a moment he was lightheaded. An involuntary shiver went down his spine, and every inch of his skin erupted in goosebumps.

Claire Beauchamp, RN BSN, had visited him every night without fail. Taken his vitals, done his assessment, given his meds. Avoided his gaze and set her chin, straight-backed and professional, courteous and distant. 

But he never thought he’d lay eyes on his _Sassenach_ again. 

The woman he’d befriended, laughed and bantered with, held and rocked and confessed his secrets to. 

The woman he loved with every cell in his body. 

The woman he believed had maybe… just maybe… loved him, too.

He thought she was lost to him. 

But there she was. Caught off-guard, startled and vulnerable and _her._

The breath choked out of him in a sound that was almost a laugh, his heart so light he thought it would float right out of his chest. 

“Ye dinna look like any Santa I’ve ever seen,” he said at last, his eyes locked on hers and holding fast. He cracked a smile, praying with everything in him that she…

_There._ She was already trying to pull back; he could watch her frantically trying to rein herself in, but _there_ was the smile he yearned for — just a twitch at the corner of her mouth, but her _eyes_ lit with it, golden and glittering.

Claire tugged absently at the hem of her sweater, then touched the hair just behind her ear. “You’re, um...” She waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the door. “I thought you were supposed to be at PT?”

“Ah. Someone called off, apparently. She canna get to me ‘til this afternoon.”

“I see.” 

He was losing her, he could feel it. Urgent to keep her talking, Jamie gestured to the tray. “Are those all for me?”

Claire crossed her arms over her chest, huffing out a shallow laugh. “Yes. I, um… I brought some in for the other nurses, and there were extra, so I thought…” Her cheeks flushed to match the light rose of her sweater. “Well. I know you have a sweet tooth.” 

“I do.” Jamie smiled at her tenderly, memories of shared tangerines and chocolate chip cookies lingering unspoken between them. “Those’ll all be gone in no time. There goes my New Years’ resolution already, Sassenach.” He tried to wink at her, knowing fine well that he was terrible at it.  

Claire laughed softly again, the dimples cutting into her cheeks as she looked up at him through her lashes. “Suppose you’ll just have to eat them all before then.” 

“A braw plan. Though… I dinna ken that it’s the soundest medical advice, coming from a nurse?” He regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth; he meant only to continue the banter, not to remind her of her professional obligations. 

Thank God in heaven, Claire just shrugged, her smile turning wistful. “It’s Christmas.”

“Aye,” he breathed, his lungs deflating in relief. Emboldened enough to venture back into territory she’d firmly closed off to him weeks ago, he dared to ask her, “Any exciting plans for today?”

She lifted a hand from where it was clasped at her elbow, making an airy, dismissive gesture. “Oh, you know. Same old thing, I suppose.” She tugged at a loose string on her sleeve, then tucked her hand back into place. “Whenever I’m off for the holiday I usually just order Chinese takeaway and watch the Harry Potter marathon on the telly.”

_Alone,_ Jamie filled in. 

He could envision it all too clearly: his Sassenach curled up on her couch with a blanket and that too-big sweatshirt, bathed in the cold blue light of a telly screen. Listlessly picking at a takeout box, trying not to listen to the joyous sounds of her neighbors’ festivities — all the painful reminders of everything she’d lost, of how very alone she was.

The very _marrow_ of him ached at the thought.

Before he could stop to think, the words tumbled out of him in a reckless burst. “I’m a big Potter fan, ye ken.”

It was a mistake, he knew it immediately. Claire’s eyes flashed with pain, dropping away from his, and then he saw the shutters begin to close. 

He was on his feet in seconds. 

He wouldn’t lose her again. Not if she was still there, not if…

He took a step toward her and she recoiled slightly, physically curling in around her vital organs as if to protect herself. But she knew, surely she _knew_ he would never hurt her. 

So Jamie edged closer.

“You could stay,” he offered quietly. 

Claire clutched her arms tighter across her front, her nails digging into the heavy knit of her sweater until they turned white. He tried desperately to find her eyes again, to get her to _look_ at him, but she was staring firmly off to one side, just over his shoulder. 

She shook her head at him miserably. 

But he kept trying. 

“We could watch it together. Get the food delivered here.” 

Another step closer, and he watched her collarbones rise on a sharp inhale, watched her lips part as the breath shook past them.

“I… I have all these cookies, ye ken? Ye’d be doing me a favor, sharin’ them wi’ me...”

One final step, and he was close enough to touch her; close enough to see the film of tears flash to her eyes, to watch the individual droplets glimmer on her lashes as she blinked furiously to clear them.

“That way, we… neither one of us would have to be alone for Christmas.”

Claire’s ribs buckled as though he’d kicked her squarely in the chest. She tipped her face up, gasping for air like she…

_Like she was drowning._

On instinct, he went to grab hold of her. But she spun her back to him as he moved, latching onto the countertop behind her, shaking so hard he thought she might break apart.

“I can’t, Jamie.”

Her voice was so small.

His was even smaller.

“Why not?”

She just shook her head, her shoulders hunched and juddering with each breath. 

He took a step closer, his front nearly grazing her back, and tried again. “Why not, Claire?”

It seemed that ages went by, filled only with the sound of her ragged breathing, before she sniffled hard, flattening her palms on the countertop to brace herself. She took several deep breaths, straightened her spine, and finally turned back to him. 

The tip of her nose was pink and running, her eyes drawn tight with pain. But her chin was set in that familiar way that meant her mind was made up.

“I picked up the first four hours of Laura’s shift tomorrow.” Her voice rasped through a raw throat, thin but steady. “So I can be the one to send you home.” She nodded faintly to herself, then looked him square in the eye. “We’ll talk then, Jamie. I promise.”

Only paying half a mind to the words coming out of her mouth, he studied his Sassenach’s glass face instead, obsessively trying to get a read on her.

He saw misery. _Pain._

Exhaustion.

Resignation.

Whatever she’d set her mind to, it was clearly breaking her heart.

That didn’t bode well for either of them.

But it also meant that he _hadn’t_ been wrong this whole time. She _did_ _feel something_ for him, whether she wanted to or no. 

The cogs in Jamie’s head spun frantically, trying for the thousandth time to piece together what had changed, why she thought she needed to pull away from him when she _knew_ he felt the same way.

_Why?_

“And in the meantime,” she said, her eyebrows curving up, her whole expression melting into one of concern, of compassion, of—

_Love,_ he realized, his heart tripping over a beat and then pounding twice to compensate.

Her fingers curled around his upper arms for emphasis, her eyes looking up into his, wet and vulnerable and pleading. “Try to enjoy your Christmas, Jamie. Please. You’re right, you… you _shouldn’t_ spend it alone. You should Facetime with your sister, the children. Ian. O-or Murtagh? I know they’re missing you terribly.” Her voice was growing fainter as she spoke, until he could barely hear her, close as he was. “I’m sure they… they’ll be so happy to see you tomorrow.” 

Jamie’s hand was drawn to her hair without him even realizing it, gently brushing a frizzy strand back from her face. His own features had softened to match hers as she spoke, unspeakable tenderness swelling in his chest until he thought his heart would burst with it. 

“Is that what this is about, Claire?” he whispered, his thumb stroking along that delicate wisp of curl. “About me leaving?”

Her chin dimpled as she closed her eyes.

_Oh, mo chridhe…_

She took a wavering breath, then opened them again. “Tomorrow,” she said as she looked up at him — a request just as much as a reminder.

He nodded once, holding her gaze, her trust. 

He could wait. 

A day, a week, a year.

As long as she needed, he could wait.

“Tomorrow,” he agreed softly. 


	23. One Last Cut

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _A/N: And we've arrived at one of the most pivotal chapters in this story (but not the last! A few people were under the impression that this is the final chapter, and it is decidedly NOT)._
> 
> _This may seem like a no-brainer, but I would ask you, very deliberately, NOT to try to skim or scroll ahead in this chapter. I tried to construct the emotional arc in a very deliberate way, with a build whose effect would be ruined by jumping ahead and then trying to come back. Don't do that to yourself! Please have the patience to read through it as written. I think (I hope) the payoff will be worth it. Thanks so much for bearing with me on this journey, friends, and thank you especially - deeply, sincerely, from the bottom of my heart - to my INCREDIBLE team of betas who held my hand through every paragraph._
> 
> _I'm behind on responding to reviews, but I read and cherish every single one of them, and I do promise to go back and answer them individually as soon as possible!_
> 
> _P.S. I've incorporated a (slightly altered) quote from Voyager in the last section, so of course, credit where credit is due!_

Her time was up.

There was no more _later,_ no more _tomorrow._  

No more delaying the inevitable. 

Claire had done her duty by James Fraser. He’d bear the scars of her mistake for the rest of his life, but he’d recovered as well as could possibly be expected. After two weeks of IV antibiotics, the tunneling infection in his back had finally cleared up, and that last troublesome gash was closing nicely; another week or two and it would be completely healed over. As long as he kept up his protein intake, stayed hydrated, slept enough, and took all of his medications exactly as prescribed, Jamie would be fine.

So that was the last thing. The very last thing Claire had to do for him. 

She stayed up all night making him a folder of hand-written instructions and schedules, highlighting the most important things in bright yellow and underlining them twice for good measure. She wrote until her hand cramped, trying to think of everything worth mentioning, every last scrap of information that could possibly help him or his physicians back home. When she’d exhausted her encyclopedic memory bank of his chart (and everything that _wasn’t_ in his chart but _should_ have been), she sat back and reread her notes with the tip of a pen pinched between her teeth, nibbling bite marks into the black plastic. 

_What am I forgetting? What else, damn it? What else?_

There wouldn’t be another chance after this. It wasn’t as if she could just text him with an _“oh, by the way, I forgot to tell you…”_

The stomach-gnawing panic that she would forget something vital — something that could make a _difference_ — compelled her to her feet, pacing the length of her living room restlessly until the next stray thought occurred to her and she dashed back over to the folder to jot it down. 

The previous thirteen days had dragged by at an agonizing crawl; every hour spent in silence at Jamie’s bedside had felt like weeks. But somehow, cruelly, that last night before she had to say goodbye to him seemed to speed by in a dizzying whirl, as if time had suddenly realized its error and lurched forward to correct itself.

With less than half an hour before the start of her shift, Claire finally, reluctantly, set her pen down on the stack of papers with a shaking hand.

That was it. That was everything. Everything she could remember. 

All she could do now was pray that something written in those pages would help Jamie when she no longer could. 

Claire felt strangely numb as she walked into the bathroom — hollow, cold; a living echo of her nightmare. She cranked up the hot water until it scalded her skin and scrubbed herself raw. 

It didn’t make any difference.

Staring vacantly at a fixed point ahead of her, she went through the motions of getting ready for work on autopilot.

She didn’t bother with mascara this time. 

Gathering up the folder from the coffee table and holding it to her heart, Claire stood for a long moment in the middle of her living room, eyes squeezed shut, just wishing... 

But then it was 06:55. And the time for wishing was gone.

She drew in a deep breath and held it for as long as she could. 

One last cut, and Jamie would be free of her. He could have his life back. 

_One last cut, Beauchamp._

She opened her eyes as she exhaled in a burning gust, and strode resolutely out of her flat toward Massachusetts General for the last time. 

 

* * *

  
  


“Tell me again.”

Jamie heaved a sigh, but the creases around his eyes deepened in amusement. “The wee blue pill at 2. I promise, Sassenach, I heard ye the first six times.”

“I know.” Claire dragged a hand through her hair, then settled it on her hip. “I know, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to keep nagging you about this, it’s just… it’s _very_ important that you remember that one. The antibiotic and the gabapentin. The rest are important too, but those in particular—”

“I hear ye.” He smiled at her tenderly, reaching over to pluck the color-coded medication schedule from his folder. “Look, ye’ve already done all the work for me. I’ll just follow this to the letter, aye?” 

“Right. Yes.” 

She must have appeared unconvinced; a dimple cut into Jamie’s right cheek as he suppressed a knowing smirk. 

“Here.” He pulled his mobile from his jeans pocket _(it was still so incredibly strange to see him in street clothes)_ and began to tap his thumb over the keypad, glancing back and forth between his screen and the handwritten schedule. After a few moments, he tilted his mobile toward Claire to show her a series of alarms all down the length of the screen, labeled with cheeky names like _the wee blue one, the one that tastes like arse,_ and _gaba-daba-doo._  

“Better?” he asked, eyes twinkling. 

Still trying to make her laugh, down to the last minute.

“Lots,” Claire managed curtly, turning away to look at the computer so he wouldn’t see her swallowing against a swollen, salty-hot throat. She clicked into the chart she’d long since memorized and scrolled through it anyway, trying not to think about how much she was going to miss that bloody idiotic, childish sense of humor. 

The wry purse of his lips when he knew he was being funny; the way he peered at her out of the corner of his eye, waiting to see if she’d caught his joke; the way he beamed and scrunched his nose when she finally sputtered into giggles, unable to help herself.

No one had ever been able to make her laugh the way Jamie did.

“What’s next on the list, then?” he asked softly, in a tone that meant she was fooling exactly no one with her sudden interest in the computer screen. 

Claire rolled her tongue along her gumline, needing to keep her jaw moving against the cramping threat of tears. She read through the discharge instructions tab one last time, as if something might have magically appeared in the past few seconds to give her something else to do. 

“Well…” Reluctantly, she turned back to face him, wringing the tips of her fingers. “At this point I’ve been talking at you for — what, two hours? A bit more?” She tried to smile. “I think I’ve probably covered most of the basics.”

Jamie made a hum of amusement. “Aye. If somethin’ in that packet hasna made it through my thick heid, it’s no fault of yours, Sassenach.”

“I know it’s a lot to process,” she admitted. “So I suppose I… I should turn it over to you now.” She spread her hands, then clasped them together again, rubbing her thumb restlessly along the lifeline of her palm. “What questions do you have?”

Jamie fell quiet, a slight furrow of concentration forming between his brows as he picked up the stack of handwritten pages and and thumbed through them again, taking the time to truly consider each one. 

“About this?” he clarified after a moment, glancing up at her. He gave a slight shake of his head, then tucked the papers neatly back into their folder. “Nothin’ that I can think of.”

And there it was. 

The elephant in the room that they’d both been so studiously avoiding all morning. 

Of course he had questions for her — questions that had nothing to do with his discharge whatsoever. And she owed him those answers. 

That’s why they were here. 

Claire could feel her pulse picking up speed. Saliva pooled in her mouth as though she might be sick, and a strange tingling sensation started behind her ears before washing over her entire scalp in a wave. 

“Alright,” she said slowly. “Well, I… I suppose I’d better let the clerk know to call for your ride, then.” She crossed her arms over her front, dizzily scanning the room for an excuse — _any_ excuse — for more time. “Did you remember to grab your charger?”

“Aye.” Jamie reached behind him to pat the outer zipper pocket of his duffel bag. “I got it.”

“And you got everything out of your top drawer?”

“I did.”

She nodded once, swallowing to keep her voice steady. “What about snacks? You hardly touched your breakfast, I know you’ll be hungry before long.”

Jamie exhaled in a tight, shallow laugh. “Well, I, ah— I made an impressive dent in those cookies last night, but I think there’s still at least two dozen left. I’m all set on the snack front for a while yet.”

“Right. Right, of course.” Claire shifted her scrutinizing gaze back from its sweep around the hospital room to rest on Jamie again, and her eye caught at once on his mop of shower-damp curls. She took a step toward him on instinct, lifting her hand halfway to touch a stray lock before she remembered herself. 

“Your hair’s still wet.” The burning ache in her throat swelled tighter, and her voice grew strained, hoarse. “Do you have a hat? It’s bloody freezing out there.”

“Nah,” Jamie answered quietly. “Dinna fash, I’ll only be outside long enough to get in and out of the car.” His fingertips brushed her elbow in reassurance. “I’ll be fine, Sassenach.”

She could feel it building with alarming speed now: the fluttering tension in her diaphragm, the cramp from the hinge of her jaw into her throat. 

Christ, she didn’t want to cry.

She nodded quickly, her gaze trained on his knees. “I know you will,” she whispered, and meant it. It was the only thing holding her together; the only thing giving her the strength she needed to do this.

He would be fine without her. 

_Better._  

He would be better off.

So it was time to tell him the truth. To let him go. 

But somehow, all the words she’d practiced, rehearsed over and over for weeks, seemed to fall woefully short now that the moment had come to say them.

She was still attempting to figure out how on earth to begin when Jamie rose from his perch on the edge of the bed, moving to stand directly in front of her. “So are we done here?” he asked in a low murmur. “Wi’ all of this?”

Claire smiled as best she could, her eyes flicking up briefly to his before dropping again. “Almost.” 

Reaching into the front pocket of her scrub top, she retrieved a pair of silver nursing scissors, then silently held out her palm. Though she still couldn’t look at him, Claire felt Jamie’s eyes studying her as he placed his hand in hers.

For a long moment they were still, the scissors dangling loosely at her side. Claire pursed her lips to keep them from trembling, staring at his name on the ID band until her vision blurred with tears. With a feather-light touch, she drew her fingertips along the warm curve of his palm and slipped them beneath the laminated band at his wrist. 

_One last cut._

“Jamie…” Her voice was thick with emotion, wavering, but she wouldn’t let it break. “I have something I need to tell you.” 

She wet her chapped lips, swallowed hard. 

“Something I… should have told you a long time ago.”

She sensed him nod. “Aye,” he whispered, his hand closing gently over the fragile bones of her wrist. “I have something I need to tell ye, too.”

Claire sucked in a shallow, burning breath, and opened her eyes to look at him. “You first,” she insisted on the exhale. It was the last chance for it; after what she had to tell him, she knew he’d never want to speak to her again.

Jamie stared at her for a long moment, opening and closing his mouth on a half-breath of hesitation. Then his gaze shifted down to the hand holding his, and over to the scissors she held in the other. 

He slowly dragged his eyes back up to hers and gave an almost infinitesimal nod.

With heart-sinking reluctance, Claire returned it.

One careful snip, and the worn white band fluttered limp into her palm. 

Several dozen heartbeats passed in silence, save for their ragged breathing. 

“That’s it, then?” Jamie asked at last.

“That’s it,” she agreed faintly.

“I’m officially discharged? Ye’re no’ my nurse anymore?”

_I’m not your_ anything _any more,_ she thought, and wondered if he could see her heart breaking. 

“No,” she whispered, a single tear escaping down her cheek and slipping off her chin. “No, I’m not.”

The breath went out of him in a shuddering gust. “Thank Christ.” 

He closed the remaining distance between them in a single stride, threading his hand into her hair, fisting the curls at her nape to tilt her head up and back. 

Claire barely had time to gasp before his parted lips closed over hers. 

The sound morphed into a whimper as Jamie drew her in, holding her so tightly against him that she could feel his ribs rise with every breath, feel his heartbeat thundering against hers. Every sweep of his mouth was desperate, deliberate — the kiss of a man starved, and a man who had knowingly denied her; a man who sought to make amends.

_I should have kissed ye._

And Christ, how he kissed her now.

Claire couldn’t think, couldn’t feel anything beyond him, beyond _them_ ; beyond the inherent knowledge that this was _right_. 

With a desperate sound, she brought her hands up to Jamie’s face, pulling him in deeper as her mouth finally slid open against his. Their tongues met in a slow, heavy stroke, and then they were stumbling, crashing backwards. Two steps and Jamie had her pinned against the wall, growling so deep that she could feel it in her bones. 

It was like reaching the end of a long-burning fuse.

And together, they ignited. 

Equally frantic, equally ravenous, they clawed one another closer, their mouths smearing and tasting, biting and sucking away the sting. Jamie was everywhere at once, flooding her senses, communicating with her in a language she hadn’t realized she spoke — ancient and primal, foreign and familiar all at once. When their hips began an instinctual grind, he had to break away, heaving for air. His restless mouth dragged open down Claire’s throat, and he smiled against her skin when she arched into him, gasping his name.

Jamie panted something in Gaelic then, lifting his head to look at her — beaming red, flushed to the very tips of his ears. But as his eyes searched hers, his expression slowly began to shift, the lust that had sent him crashing hard and urgent against her giving way to something infinitely quieter, and infinitely more powerful. 

Shaking his head in wonderment, he brought his fingertips to her face, cradling her as though she were something precious. 

As though she were… _deserving,_ somehow. 

And the resounding truth cracked through Claire’s chest like a gunshot.

She _didn’t_ deserve him. 

That’s why she was here in the first place; why she needed to tell him the truth, send him home. So he could build the life he _did_ deserve, with a woman who could... 

Her lips parted on a sobbing breath when Jamie leaned in to kiss her again, impossibly tender and achingly slow. She kept her eyes open even as they welled with tears, needing to watch him, to remember.

To memorize what it was to feel cherished.

Whole. 

Jamie made a soft sound when her lips began to tremble against his, shifting one hand down to the small of her back to pull her closer. He drew back from their kiss just far enough to run the tip of his nose gently along the length of hers, then sideways to the corners of each of her eyes, nuzzling at her tears. His lips followed, charting the same course; placing delicate, whisper-soft kisses to each eyelid and cheek before returning home to her mouth.   

“I love you,” he breathed, warm and shaking against her lips. “God, I love you.” He bowed his forehead into hers, wrapping his arm tighter around her waist. “I dinna want this to be goodbye, Claire.” 

Whatever strength she had left, it shattered beneath the weight of those words. 

She shook her head, pressing her lips together, humming miserably with a smothered sob. “Neither do I.” 

It was selfish to keep him. The most selfish thing she’d ever done in her life.

But she couldn’t make that last cut.

She couldn’t tell him. 

She couldn’t _lose_ him.

“I can’t,” she choked out. “I can’t do it, Jamie, I... _”_  

She collapsed into him then, crying so hard her breath came in a hoarse, wheezing drone.

Burrowing into his neck, she clutched his shirt with white-knuckled fists, and felt his hands smoothing over her back, trying to soothe her; vaguely heard him making quiet shushing noises against her ear. But Claire was far beyond the point of comfort. Her words slurred together incoherently, hitching and strangled, hysterical with grief.

_“I can’t lose you, I can’t do it, Jamie, I can’t, I can’t do it...”_

His hands left her back to grip her face, forcing her up from his shoulder. “Ye dinna have to,” he said, smearing her tears with the pads of his thumbs. “Claire, shh. Shhh. Look at me. Look at me. Ye dinna have to.”

She was shaking violently, and couldn’t get a deep enough breath — couldn’t gulp down enough oxygen to replace what she’d spent. But at his gentle command, she tried to settle, suck in as much air as she could through her chattering teeth. Her vision was too blurry to see him, but she looked up anyway. 

Jamie continued to stroke her face as he leaned in to press his forehead against hers. “Ye’re no’ going to lose me,” he promised. “We’ll figure something out. Hm? We’ll figure it out.” He shifted his lips up, pressing a kiss to her brow for a long moment before nuzzling into her again. “Let me call and cancel my flight, and then I—”

“No,” Claire insisted, digging her fingers into his arms, shaking her head firmly. It was exactly what she needed to ground her, force her to get a bloody hold of herself; after everything he’d been through, Jamie would _not_ lapse in his recovery to play martyr for her. Straightening up, she swiped the wrist of her sleeve over her eyes and nose. “No, you can’t do that. Your rehab…”

“We looked at places here too, aye?” He smiled, tucking a damp lock behind her ear. “Good ones. I’ll talk to the case manager, see if we canna book a slot. If nothing else, I reckon I could just do outpatient PT and be fine.”

Claire opened and closed her mouth, trying to come up with an argument; trying to decide if she should even be arguing at all.

At a complete loss over everything that had just fallen into place in the last ten minutes. 

Jamie loved her.

He loved _her._

He wanted to be with her. 

She didn’t have to lose him. 

If he didn’t hate her, if he never knew, they could just... move on. Build a life together.

Be happy.

“Jamie...” she whispered, looking up at him, vulnerable and uncertain, relieved and terrified.

He took her hand and kissed it. “D’ye want me to get on that plane, Claire?” he asked quietly, his cheek dimpling with that wry, knowing smile that made her heart hurt with loving him.

Holding his gaze, Claire slowly shook her head. “No,” she breathed, and felt a weight lift from her chest. 

Jamie’s smile broadened until his eyes crinkled with it. “Good,” he said, leaning in to capture her lips. “Cos buyin’ ye a last-minute flight would cost a pretty penny, Sassenach.” He tried to wink, and kissed her again when she finally smiled, thumbing away the last of her tears. “And I dinna mean to go back wi’out ye.”

 

* * *

  
  


By the time he forced himself to disentangle from the warmth of his Sassenach’s arms — her mouth, _ah Dhia,_ her mouth — Jamie had less than ninety minutes remaining to get his affairs in order. 

It wasn’t much time.

With only three hours before his scheduled flight departure and no idea when he’d need to rebook, he figured trying to argue with the airline was a waste of breath. He couldn’t even bring himself to care; it was the best money he’d ever lost. 

Fortunately, the matter of physical therapy was something he’d been quietly working on since before Christmas, just in case. He’d been emailing with a few different facilities; it was simply a matter of calling them up, seeing which of them could actually take him on last-minute notice. Another call to the rehab place in Inverness to cancel his booking. Apologies, a pile of paperwork. A lengthy conversation with his insurance company.

And finally, the requisite call to his sister. 

Which went about as well as he’d expected.

His left ear would be ringing for hours. 

Jamie’s Uber driver was halfway back to his flat by the time Jenny hung up on him with a few scathing, choice words in the Gàidhlig. He shot her a final _We can talk about this later, Janet_ text before pocketing his mobile. 

It was strange, he thought as the driver pulled down his street — going back to that empty place that had never really been home. But the lease was good through the end of January, and all of his _stuff_ was still there, so he figured he should at least drop by to check on the state of things. 

No sooner had the front door swung open on its hinges, though, than he groaned with instant regret.

Every surface was coated in a fine layer of dust. His one wee house plant was dead and mummified, a rather industrious brown spider had built an intricate web across the arch into the back hallway, and whatever he’d thrown in the rubbage the night of the accident stunk to high heaven. 

He wouldn’t be bringing Claire up to his place any time soon, that was for damn sure. 

Making the best of what little time he had, Jamie took an inventory of his cleaning supplies, hauled the rubbish out to the bin, threw his bedding into the washer, and scribbled down a grocery list of all the things he knew his Sassenach loved. As an afterthought, he stepped into the bathroom to give himself a proper shear with a straight blade, then rubbed his face and neck down with his best aftershave. He swapped out his bulky winter coat for his well-broken-in brown leather jacket, and tugged a beanie on at the last minute, remembering Claire’s request. 

And then he went back for her.

He got to the hospital lobby three minutes before the end of her shift, and forced himself to sit in one of the chairs in the waiting area so he wouldn’t pace like a damned idiot — or worse, head back upstairs, unable to stand being so close to her without having her in his arms.

His knee was jiggling anxiously, fingers drumming against his thigh, when at last the elevator doors opened, and there she was.

Claire’s eyes were still puffy, her cheeks splotched from crying, her hair a frizzy, floating riot about her face. She saw him, and stopped — staring at him as though she couldn’t quite believe he was there. 

As though a part of her still thought he wasn’t coming back.

Jamie stood on legs that felt like water, opening his arms for her. They were both moving in the same moment, colliding in the middle and knocking the breath out of one another in gusts of relief. Claire immediately tucked her face into his neck, and he wrapped her up, kissing her hair. He opened his mouth to speak more than once, but finally settled for just holding her, swaying her gently, breathing her in as if they were the only two people in that crowded hospital lobby. 

They weren’t, of course. And the whooping cry of a familiar voice behind them was sudden and startling proof of that. 

“Oo-hooo, mama! You owe me twenty dollars!” Jamie glanced up just in time to catch Shariah elbowing Lisa in the ribs as the two women stepped out of the elevator. “They didn’t even make it outta the damn building!” 

“‘Bout damn time, you two!” the blonde physical therapist crowed in agreement. “Ow ow!” 

Both women were beaming, and Jamie grinned sheepishly back at them over the top of Claire’s head.  “ _Ach._ Bit of a curse and give us peace!” 

“Look at those babies.” Shariah had begun flapping a hand over her heart and fanning her eyes. “Look at ‘em! _Ooh,_ I could just—”

Fortunately, Lisa took pity on him, hooking her elbow through her friend’s and forcibly dragging her away. “C’mon, keep walking, keep walking. They’ve got a lot of _catching up_ to do.” She threw Jamie a wink as they passed, then called over her shoulder as they rounded the corner, “But we better get wedding invites, Fraser, just saying!” 

He felt Claire snort against his neck as she burst into giggles, and then Jamie cracked too; both of them bent into one another, sniggering like miscreant schoolchildren. When their laughter dwindled to hums, he slipped his fingers into her hair, brushing it aside so he could bring his lips close to her ear. 

“I think mebbe we should take this somewhere we’re less likely to cause a scene,” he suggested. Goosebumps rippled along Claire’s neck where his breath touched it, and an electric thrill shot through him at the knowledge that he could affect her so. 

“What did you have in mind?” she asked, slightly breathless.

 

* * *

 

“I hate to say I told you so,” Claire teased, golden eyes glittering as their server placed three heaping plates of food in front of him: eggs and toast, potatoes, bacon, sausage, ham, and a towering stack of blueberry pancakes. “But I did call it. I _knew_ you were going to be hungry again soon.” 

“I didna deny it!” Jamie spread his hands innocently, grinning, knowing far better than to comment on the lady’s _own_ massive, everything-but-the-kitchen-sink omelet. It had taken all his willpower not to heave a sigh of relief when Claire ordered like a woman who was actually hungry. He knew fine well that she hadn’t been eating enough; probably hadn’t had anything at all that day — perhaps not the day before, either. She was already a slender, willowy lass when he first met her, and over the past few weeks, she’d only gotten thinner. When he held her, he could feel each of her individual ribs beneath her scrub top.

It worried him sick.

Watching her tuck into her breakfast, making a throaty _mm_ of appreciation, made his heart feel significantly lighter.

Things were going to be better now.

There would be time to talk. Really talk. Draw her close, and make her feel safe; let her speak her heart to him, as she had the night she’d told him about her parents’ accident. 

He understood now — or at least thought he did — why she’d been so distant, tried to close herself off to him over the past two weeks. Claire had lost everyone she’d ever loved. She thought she was going to lose him too. So she’d been trying to detach from him, to… make the break easier somehow. 

Christ, he wished she would have just talked to him. He might have put her fears at ease so much sooner. 

But he also understood that trust was a fragile thing in those who had been hurt, and his Sassenach was hurt, deeply. And trying to buck twenty years of hard-wired instincts… well. He knew it would take time. 

He’d give her the rest of his life, if she’d have him.

Starting with breakfast.

They both ate until they were full to bursting, though neither of them could finish what they’d ordered — eyes bigger than his stomach, his sister had always chided him. Jamie asked the waitress for to-go boxes and the cheque, and glanced over to find Claire’s eyes drooping heavily, her head bobbing as she fought to stay awake. 

He lifted his arm around her to draw her in, and she let out her breath in a soft, contented hum as she snuggled into him. Jamie made the same sound, nosing into her hair and letting his eyes slip shut. 

He hadn’t slept a wink the night before. And he knew Claire hadn’t had a proper night’s rest in days, if not weeks. Pressing a kiss to her head, he murmured, “Ye need sleep, _mo chridhe.”_  

She made another wee humming noise. “I’m alright,” she whispered, nudging closer into the curve of his neck. She drew her fingertips in light, delicate circles over his opposite arm, and he felt warm to the very bones of him. 

“Mm. Dinna ken about that. I think I could just hold ye like this, stroke yer hair a bit, and ye’d fall asleep right here.”

He felt her smile faintly against his skin. “I wouldn’t be opposed.”

The waitress came back with their boxes and bill then, and Jamie managed to maneuver and sign everything one-handed, refusing to dislodge Claire from his shoulder. She was so exhausted he thought she might well and truly fall asleep on him, despite the jostling. 

A few months ago, he could have carried her home — a mile or more, if need be. It made his blood boil that he was too weak for it now, and he reminded himself to check his email as soon as he had a free minute. He needed to get into a physical therapy program as soon as humanly possible.  
  
He needed to be strong for her. Claire had carried him long enough. 

Now it was his turn. 

The best he could do for the moment was to help maneuver her to her feet, and provide a shoulder to lean on as he collected their leftovers and walked her out the door.

The bite of cold winter air roused her a bit; blinking in the bright morning sunlight, Claire lifted her head and looked around, seeming lost, almost delirious. 

“What’s yer address, Sassenach?” he asked softly. “Ye live close by, no?”

“Just, um… just down the street,” she said, waving a finger off to the left. She looked up at him then, frowning slightly, her eyes unfocused. “But I’m fine, Jamie. Really. I’m not ready to go home yet.” Her voice grew thin as she leaned her head against his shoulder again. “I want to be with you.”

The idea was there — had been since he’d gone back to his own flat and seen what a disaster it was. 

Still, it was a risk. It was _soon_. And the last thing he wanted was to push her when she was barely hanging on.

But the compromise was obvious.

“I could go up wi’ ye,” he offered, trying to make his voice as gentle and unassuming as possible. He tipped her chin up with his finger so she could see the honesty in his eyes. “Just to sleep.” 

There was no fear in her face, no hesitation, but still, he clarified nervously, “I can nap on the couch, if ye want. We dinna need to do anything ye—”

She silenced him with a kiss. 

 

* * *

 

Claire cleaned when she couldn’t sleep. Thank God for that.

Every surface of her flat was polished to a citrus-scented gleam when she unlocked the door and led Jamie inside. Still, her mind raced with last minute thoughts of the empty wine bottles on her nightstand _(Christ, he was going to think her a bloody alcoholic),_ the dirty knickers and sleep shirt she’d left crumpled on the bathroom floor, the empty kitchen with nothing to offer him but a few soy sauce packets and some possibly-expired orange juice. 

She ran a hand self-consciously through her hair, then gestured around the room. “So, this is it. Um… bathroom’s down the hall on the left. I have literally nothing to offer you to drink, but there are — there are clean glasses in the dishwasher, and the city water is quite decent, actually...”

_“Och,_ I couldna eat or drink anything else right now if ye paid me,” Jamie assured her, weaving around the kitchen island to put their leftovers away in the fridge. He turned back to her then, his expression unreadable, leaning his palms against the countertop as he looked around the main living space.

“It’s a bonnie wee place, Sassenach. I’ll have ye give me the grand tour after we’ve had a bit of rest, aye?”

Claire swallowed against a throat that had suddenly gone dry. “Sure. Right, um…” Her cheeks were burning, she could feel it. So were Jamie’s. 

He’d been the perfect gentleman. Offered to sleep on the couch, if she wanted. 

_If she wanted._

The question hung unspoken between them as they stared at one another, breathing shallowly, the tension in the room thick enough to cut with a knife.

And, God, Claire was so... fucking exhausted. She’d spent weeks trying to keep her distance from him, when all she wanted...

But she didn’t need to anymore. Strange as it was, they could… they could do this now. 

They could be together.

Slowly, she held out her hand to him. 

Eyes locked on hers, Jamie crossed the room to her, and took it. 

She didn’t know what to expect, what on earth they were doing. But suddenly she was leading him toward her bedroom, remembering the way he’d growled into her mouth, pressed her to the wall, and her head was swimming, and her heart was racing, and _shit,_ was she supposed to change in front of him, or-? 

Thankfully, Jamie made it easy on her; excused himself to the loo for a moment, giving her time to strip out of her work clothes and pull on a soft knit henley and sleep pants. She took her bra off out of habit, then panicked, her eyes darting to the closed bathroom door, wondering if that was too forward, or if he’d want to take it off himself, or— 

“Jesus H. Christ,” she hissed, raking her hands back through her hair. 

But then the door opened. And it was just Jamie.

It was just Jamie.

He’d taken off his shoes, jacket, and hat, and he looked comfortable, but worn out; as exhausted as she felt.

And just like that, Claire’s nerves were gone. 

She slipped into bed and peeled back the covers next to her in invitation. Exhaling shakily, Jamie crawled in beside her, settling hesitantly on his side. Dark blue eyes questioned her about where she wanted him, how she liked to sleep; something intimate she already knew about him, Claire realized, but that he still needed to learn about her.

Smiling softly, she leaned in to brush her lips against his, then rolled over onto her opposite side, drawing his arm around her as she turned. Jamie took his cue without hesitation, spooning against her back and nuzzling into her hair, both of them shifting their hips and shoulders until they were snugly aligned.

Claire breathed out a long, deep sigh of contentment when they’d both finally settled, letting her heartbeat and respirations gradually slow to match his. He was so warm, and so solid, and the weight of his arm across her chest made her feel safe in a way she couldn’t remember feeling in… a very long time. 

She was already half-asleep when Jamie’s free hand began to slip through her curls, soothing her as she’d always soothed him. 

She let go then; let herself drift, knowing Jamie was there to tether her. 

Unafraid, for the first time in weeks, to face whatever dreams may come. 

 

* * *

  
  
They turned and moved together as they slept, always touching, in a drowsy, slow-motion ballet, learning in silence the newfound language of their bodies. Even subconsciously, Claire seemed to remember his back; whenever they shifted to their right sides, and it was her turn to spoon against him, she hugged him at the shoulders and shifted her hips back, careful not to press where it hurt. 

It should have been awkward, sleeping with a new person in her bed. That transitional period with a new boyfriend always had been. Learning to share a space, blankets, pillows; adjusting to the odd movements and sounds of another body when she was used to sleeping alone. 

But Jamie felt… 

_Right._

She just kept coming back to that. It felt _right_ with him.

It felt like home.  

And so she slept — they both did — better than either of them had in months. 

By the time she began to float leisurely toward the surface of consciousness, the entire bedroom was pitch black, save the dim blue light of her clock radio. She was on her back, with Jamie’s arm draped across her waist, his right thigh hitched over hers. 

And even through his jeans, she could feel him, half-hard against her hip. 

As soon as she recognized it, she was fully awake. 

Jamie wasn’t, though; she could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, the stirring of his breath against the downy hairs on the side of her neck. 

Claire, on the other hand, could barely breathe. 

She lay completely paralyzed for a moment, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling. 

Remembering. Taking stock.

Considering what she’d done. 

Slowly, she turned her head on the pillow, trying to find the outline of Jamie’s face in the darkness.

And finding him, she began to breathe again.

Stripped of the raw, reckless hysteria of sleep deprivation, she found a strange sense of peace in the fact that even now, she would still make the same choice. 

She was done hurting Jamie over this whole bloody mess. Christ, she was so very, very done. 

At this point, he rarely even spoke about the accident anymore. He was looking forward, not back. He hadn’t mentioned the other driver since the very first night they met — didn’t seek vengeance, perhaps didn’t even want to know who was responsible. 

Jamie had moved on.

It was Claire who couldn’t. 

Was it right, then, to rip open a wound that had already healed, just to absolve her own guilt, her need to confess? Especially when he was asking her — _begging_ her — to let him love her, as she loved him?

She didn’t deserve him, that much was abundantly clear. She would never deserve him. 

But perhaps… perhaps… she could still make him happy.

She could try. 

Reaching out tentatively, Claire drew a fingertip over the curve of his bottom lip, the cleft of his chin. Jamie woke smiling into the tender press of her kiss, breathing out softly through his nose. 

They were languid for a while, sleepy and slow. The shift of their bodies was so gradual that it took Claire several minutes to realize that he had moved to lay fully on top of her, the warm weight of his hips pinning hers to the mattress. 

And the evidence of his wanting pressing ever-more urgently against her belly.

She wanted him too. 

Badly.

Wrapping her thighs around the backs of his, she drew him in deeper to the cradle of her body and began a slow, rocking rhythm against him. She felt a shudder go down Jamie’s spine, felt the moan building in his chest before it escaped against her tongue.

Lost in the smoldering heat of his kiss, stoking hotter and hotter as he began to grind back against her, she didn’t hear the insistent buzzing of the intercom out in the living room. 

Or the pounding fist on her front door as she arched her back, gasping, as his fingers teased her nipple to a hardened peak.

Or the jiggle of a key in the lock as she tugged his shirt over his head and pulled him back down to her mouth, ravenous and whimpering. 

It wasn’t until she heard her name in an unexpected voice — familiar, deep, slurred with alcohol — that her heart stopped, her blood turning to ice in her veins. 

_Frank._

Scrambling to right her clothes, she pushed up on Jamie and wriggled out from underneath him. He had looked up, equally startled, at the sound of the other man’s voice, and watched her in confusion as she staggered to her feet, running her hands through her hair.

“Stay here,” she begged him, wide-eyed and desperate. “Please, just stay here. Let me handle this.”

And she stepped out into the living room with her heart in her throat.


End file.
